


Maybe Tomorrow

by scifigrl47



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Historical AU, M/M, Movie AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 113,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: Tony Stark may well be the richest man in America.  In the depths of the Great Depression, that's no small claim.  When a plot is hatched for him to take in an orphan for a week, everyone knows it's a publicity stunt.  No one knows it better than Officer Steve Rogers, but he's got a job to do, and he's going to do it.  Doesn't mean he's going to approve.Yes, it's an Annie AU.Yes.  That Annie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's... It's an Annie AU. Let's be honest about that upfront. It is absolutely an Annie AU. It's a fic based on a bad movie based on a bad musical based on a bad comic strip. What I'm saying here is that any hope for historical accuracy is straight out the window. I'm going to do the absolute minimum to keep it period appropriate, but let's be honest up front.
> 
> I'm writing this for two reasons:
> 
> 1\. Jarvis  
> 2\. Steve Rogers' Disapproving Face
> 
> That's it. Thank you.
> 
> Tony's mansion is based on the The Breakers, the Gilded Age Mansion that is still available to tour in Newport, RI. Because I was just there. And it was very very pretty.

"Evening, Officer Rogers."

Steve looked up, the voice catching him off guard in the gloom of the hallway. "Evening, Mrs. O'Malley," he said with a smile. He tucked his cap under his arm, fumbling in his pile of packages. "Here. I've got something for you."

Her rough face softened as Steve handed over the paper wrapped packet. "Ah, but a good boy you are, too good to an old lady like me." She turned it over in her hands. "Soup bones?"

"Mostly, but Mr. Fletcher down at the shop left a bit of meat on there for you." Steve smiled at her as he headed up the narrow, rickety stairs of the tenement. "Think he's sweet on you."

That earned him a flap of her apron. "The good lord'll get you for lying, see that he don't." She smiled at him, her eyes squinting against the gloom. "You have enough t' eat? I can send Sean up with some bread, if you've not got any."

He hefted one of the brown paper wrapped packages. "Thanks, but I have plenty."

She nodded. "Came out to tell you, that window of yours is creaking again." Her eyes slanted up towards the ceiling that separated their apartments. "Best you check it's closed tight tonight, else you'll hear of it, wasting the heat and all."

Steve froze on the step, one hand grabbing the banister. "Is it now." He looked up, then back down. "Thank you for letting me know, before anyone else, Mrs. O'Malley. I'll see it's taken care of."

She nodded. "You're a good boy, like your Da before you." She made the sign of the cross. "May he rest in peace." She gave him a respectful nod. "Let me know if you need some extra bread."

"Thank you, ma'am." Suddenly exhausted, Steve headed up the stairs, ignoring the way the wood creaked and shifted under his feet. He was used to that by now, used to having to twist to the side to slip through the narrow gaps between floors, used to skipping the steps that he knew wouldn't take his weight.

Used to setting his foot and hip checking the door to loosen the sticky hinge before he tried unlocking it. Inside, his small apartment was dark and still, but the curtains were pushed back from the single window in the kitchen. Steve gave it a look. "You better not have broken my window," he said, pushing the door shut behind him, turning to hang his cap on the hook as he flicked on the single bare bulb in the middle of the room. "Again."

There was a long moment of silence, and then, a small, high pitched giggle.

Against his will, Steve smiled. "Yeah, it's funny, until I need to sleep in here in the winter." He tossed the food packages onto the kitchen table and shrugged out of his uniform jacket. Tossing it over the back of the a chair, he crouched down beside the coal range. "Then I'll be noticing that you unassembled something that you couldn't manage to assemble again."

He gave the door to the stove a hard tug, only to have it open effortlessly. He rocked back on his heels, nearly ending up on his ass. Steve blinked down at it. "Did you-"

A small scuffing sound brought his head around, and he smiled at the little boy who crouched down next to him, his arms wrapped around his knees. He grinned at Steve, his eyes glinting under the dark fringe of his hair. "Fixed it," he said, in his usual, halting cadence.

Steve smiled back at him. "Yes. You did." He reached for the coal shuttle. "Have you eaten?"

DJ nodded, his eyes locked on the hinges of the range door. "Yes."

"Uh-huh." Steve lit the stove and shut the door. "Well, I got some sweetbuns, bet you can find some room in your stomach for that, right?" DJ grinned up at him, and Steve reached out, ruffling his hair. "You need to stop coming in through the window, DJ."

DJ leaned in, staying close to the stove, his arms folded and his hands tucked against his chest. Steve moved around him, filling the kettle and setting it on top of the range. "C'mon, I'll get you some bread and cheese." DJ's eyes flicked in his direction, but he turned his attention back to the stove, never moving from his chosen spot.

Steve grabbed a couple of plates from the shelf, setting them down on the kitchen table. He filled them with thick slices of bread and chunks of cheese, half a roasted potato, still warm from the peddler on the corner, and the sweet rolls that he'd intended for his breakfast in the morning. While he waited for the tea to boil, he grabbed a salami from the shelf, unwrapping it just far enough to cut a few thick rounds.

"Can you get me two cups?" he asked DJ, wrapping the salami back up. "And the tin of tea?"

DJ scrambled to his feet, sliding in shoes that were too big for him. Steve wasn't sure how he'd ended up with shoes that were too big and pants that were too small, but Hammer had a knack of doing everything wrong. DJ hopped onto a chair, using the extra height to snag the tea tin from the top shelf, and the cups with his other hand. 

Steve pushed a plate in front of him. "Thank you." He took the tea, and reached for the kettle. "Sit down like a person, please, my Ma's rolling in her grave right now."

DJ settled onto the chair, his heels braced on the edge of the seat, his knees up against his chest. "Good enough," Steve said, handing him a cup of tea. "Thank you."

With a pleased sound, DJ wrapped his hands around the cup, his fingers sliding back and forth over the chipped surface. He sniffed cautiously at the tea, then took a careful sip.

Steve reached out with his knife, nudging the edge of DJ's plate. "Eat something," he said. DJ studied him over the rim of the cup, his dark eyes steady, and Steve smiled down at him. "Please."

DJ reached out, his fingers peeling away a chunk of the bread crust. Shaking his head, Steve went back to his meal. He ate, not enough to fill the gnawing emptiness in his belly, but he was used to that, too. He was used to managing just enough to keep himself going, just enough to take the edge off.

Because there had to be enough for the next day, as well. And the one after that. All the ones after that.

He drained the last of his tea, too dark and too sweet, and set the leaves aside to reuse in the morning. “Done?” he asked DJ, who'd finished almost everything. DJ nodded, trading his plate with Steve's, and scooping up the cups. “Thank you,” Steve said, finishing the scraps that DJ had left behind before handing over the plate. “I'm going to go wash up, will you-”

But DJ had already emptied rest of the hot water from the kettle into the sink, splashing the plates into it with a great deal of enthusiasm. Steve smiled at him. “Try not to break anything,” he said, as DJ shoved a chair over to the battered basin and scrambled up to kneel on it.

Leaving him to scrub the plates clean, Steve headed to the small shared bathroom at the far end of the hall. He could hear his neighbors moving behind each door he passed, could hear them talking, their voices rising and falling in familiar waves. Some were quieter than others, but the walls were so thin in places that he could almost always make out the words, no matter how quiet they tried to be.

He paused by a few doors, his footsteps slowing but never stopping. Checking on the new wife who flinched when her husband's voice raised, when he came home swaying on his feet and smelling of cheap whiskey. On the old man who worked all hours, his back bent as he strained to finish one last button hole in the depths of the night. On the teenage girl who had four younger siblings, and everyone was politely ignoring the fact that no one had seen their parents in a week or more.

But things were quiet tonight, and Steve plodded forward, exhaustion tugging his shoulders down with each step.

When he returned to his apartment, the chairs were back at the table, the stove throwing a low, warm glow over the darkened interior. Steve pulled the door shut behind him. "I'm assuming I'll be able to 'find' you again in the morning, right?"

From the depths of his armchair, DJ peeked out from within his blanket cocoon, his dark eyes sleepy. "Yes," he said, the word dissolving into a yawn. He wiggled a bit, finding a comfortable spot in the creaky old chair.

Steve couldn't quite hold back an affectionate smile. "You're going to get us both in trouble," he said, reaching out to ruffle DJ's hair. DJ smiled up at him, and Steve headed to his own bed on the other side of the room. "You know that, right?"

DJ rolled over, putting his back to Steve, his final word on the matter. Shaking his head, Steve sat down on the edge of his bed, bending down to pull his shoes off. The stove'd keep things warm until the coal burned itself out, and he was too tired to deal with anything else. 

"Stay?"

The word was small and soft, barely audible in the echoes of noise from the other apartments. Steve glanced over at the chair, where DJ still hadn't moved. He took a deep breath. "You know you can't," he said, setting his shoes aside. "No one's going to let a single Irish cop take a kid."

Somewhere above them, something dropped to the floor with a solid thunk, and Steve looked up. Footsteps creaked across the ceiling, and Steve turned his attention back to DJ. "I'm never home, in any case, and you deserve better." He stood, unbuttoning his pants. Once he was down to his under shirt, shorts and socks, he pushed the blankets back on the bed and crawled in. "We're going to find you some real parents. Right?"

There was no response. With a sigh, Steve stacked his hands behind his head, staring up at the patchy, cracked ceiling. "I just want what's best for you," he said. "You know that, right?"

He expected the silence. It hurt anyway.

*

"Rogers!"

Steve's shoulders tightened, his back snapping straight in an instant. Across the hallway, the Captain leaned out of the door of his office. He pointed a finger in Steve's direction. “Rogers. In here. Now.”

Steve nodded. “I know I'm late, sir, but-”

“Don't care,” Captain O'Brien stepped back, waving him in. “Get in here.”

Steve slipped past him. “Sir, I-”

That was as far as he got before O'Brien cut him off. "Mackey's filed another complaint about you, Rogers," he said, his florid face tired. He shut the door after Steve and headed back to his desk. "You wanna not hassle the man?"

Steve gave a slight shrug. "He's violating the law, and everyone knows it," he said. He could hear the tension in his own voice, and he made a deliberate attempt to relax. He'd wasted too much time looking for DJ, who'd disappeared before he'd woken up. He was tired, frustrated and hungry, and that wasn't a good combination. "I've got a duty-"

"And he's got a few of the city leaders in his pocket. So your duty gets assigned by me, and mine gets assigned by the commissioner, and I bet you know where he gets his assignments." Captain O'Brian smacked a hand against his desk. Steve's teeth locked, and O'Brien gave him a sympathetic look. "Just skip that street on your patrols, if it bothers you so much. But I'm getting tired of smoothing his feathers."

"Sir-"

"No," O'Brien stabbed a finger in his direction. "I like you. You know I do. But by all the saints, you make me more trouble than the rest of the shift combined." He shook his head. "There's a dozen men lined up for your job, and none of them would make near the trouble you do. Just-" He exhaled, long and slow. "I don't want to hear your name again, the rest of this month, you understand?"

Steve opened his mouth, and O'Brien held up a hand. "Think real hard before the next word leaves your mouth, Rogers."

Steve gritted his teeth. "Yes, sir."

O'Brien huffed out a breath. "Good choice, Rogers." He sank into his chair, picked up a folder from the desk in front of him. "And as a reward for your obedience today, you get to run a personal errand for the mayor." He held the folder out to Steve, his fingers gripping it a little too hard.

Steve took it. "What is it?”

"C'mon." O'Brien gestured towards the single chair in front of his desk. "This is a hell of a mess, Rogers, and you're the lucky man who gets to deal with it."

Steve knew a trap when he saw one, but he also couldn't see any way out of it. He sank down into the chair, the folder clutched between his hands. He was somehow very reluctant to open it. “Sir?”

O'Brien rocked back in his chair, sending it tipping back on the back legs. The wood squeaked, pushed to its limits, before the chair fell back into place. "You heard of Anthony Stark?"

Steve frowned down at the folder. "The business tycoon? The millionaire?" 

"The billionaire," O'Brien said, his arms crossed over his chest. "His secretary's comin' down here this afternoon, and she needs an escort."

"An escort?" Steve's head jerked up. "An escort where?"

O'Brien's mouth kicked up on one side. "She's making a trip down to Hammer House. And you're an expert in that particular rat's nest, so..." His heavy fingers rattled against the arm of his chair. "Your job is to go with her, make sure no one hassles her or her driver, and get her the hell out of our jurisdiction without any incidents."

"To Hammer House?" Steve opened the folder, flipping through the neat, typewritten pages. "Why?"

"Ours is not to question why, Rogers." O'Brien reached for his pen. "Ours is to do as we're told. Your life'd be a lot easier if you'd just learn that." His eyes canted up, glaring at Steve from under the hard line of his eyebrows. "Be here at two pm, sharp, and remember, you're representing the police force. So I expect you to be on your best behavior." 

Steve's mouth opened, and O'Brien gave him a look. Steve subsided, nodding instead. "Yes, sir."

"Go polish your shoes and make sure you look presentable, and, remember, keep. Your mouth. Shut." O'Brien went back to his paperwork. "As much as you're capable of, at least."

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Steve pushed himself to his feet. "Yes, sir."

*

Pepper Potts was even prettier in person than she was in her photos.

She was slim and compact, clad in a well tailored blue jacket with a slim, crisp blue and white plaid skirt and matching blue hat perched on her smooth copper curls. Everything, from the perfectly matched string of pearls around her slim neck, to the spotless white shoes on her feet, was in order, not a wrinkle to the fabric, not a hair out of place. In the filthy, crowded lobby of the precinct, she stood somehow apart, as exhausted officers and civilians alike gave her a wide berth.

"Miss Potts, this is Officer Rogers," Lt. Murray said. "He'll be assisting you today.” He gave her a smile that verged on condescending. “Officer Rogers, the lovely Miss Potts.”

If Miss Potts heard the unctuous note in Murray's voice, she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she smiled up at Steve, her big blue eyes surrounded by long dark lashes. "Hello, Officer Rogers," she said, extending one white gloved hand. "So pleased to meet you." She sounded almost sincere.

Steve took her hand with care, all too aware of the fact that his hand was probably filthy. But her grip was firm and strong, her small fingers squeezing his without a flinch. "Ma'am," he said, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. 

"My car is at the curb," she said, tucking her bag under her arm. "Shall we?" Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, stepping briskly across the lobby towards the door. Steve, caught off guard, had to scramble to catch up, falling into step behind her. 

"This should be an easy enough assignment," she said, as he pushed the door open for her. Her head dipped in a slight nod of thanks, and then she was moving down the broad stone stairs in front of the station. 

Down on the street, a massive, gleaming black car was waiting, the chrome glinting in the sunlight. A tall, lanky black man in a neat, crisp suit was waiting next to it, his arms crossed over his broad chest. As they approached, he straightened up, reaching for the handle of the back door. He eyed Steve, his dark eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. "This our escort?" he asked Miss Potts.

"To his dismay, yes." Miss Potts glanced at Steve, a slight smile curving her lips. "Officer Rogers, this is James Rhodes."

"One of Mr. Stark's drivers," the man said, with a nod in Steve's direction. 

"Mostly, he gets stuck carting me from one end of the city to the other," Miss Potts said, giving the man a quick, warm smile. She slid into the car, leaving Steve hovering awkwardly on the sidewalk, unsure what to do. Miss Potts leaned back out, her eyes canting up in his direction. "Officer? We are on a strict schedule here, so shall we?"

Steve's eyes darted towards her driver, who hid a smile behind one broad palm. "Back seat," he said, shutting Miss Pott's door. "I'll get the door for you."

"Thanks, but think I can handle opening a door on my own," Steve said. He headed around the back of the car, his shoulders squared and his jaw tight. He did manage to open the car door, but any sense of pride he might've gotten from that small act was immediately wiped away when he smacked his head trying to maneuver his way into the back seat.

Miss Potts blinked at him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Ignoring the way his face burned, Steve settled into the plush seat next to her. "Yes, ma'am."

"Because that sounded like it hurt," she said, reaching out with one gloved hand. Her fingertips brushed against his forehead, and he winced. She pulled back immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's fine." Steve settled his cap in his lap, his hands resting on the brim. "I've got a hard head, and a uniform hat that'll cover the lump."

She burst out laughing, the sound high and bright and lovely. "I think I like you," she said, as Rhodes slid into the driver's seat. She leaned back in the plush seat of the car, her bag in her lap, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles. The car pulled away from the curb, and Steve glanced back at the precinct. Miss Potts studied him, her eyes sharp. "Who did you annoy to get assigned to this?" 

"Everyone," Steve said, and it slipped out before he realized the word was there. But she laughed, her pretty mouth drawing up into a bright smile.

"You might be a bit too honest to be a New York City Police Officer," she said, her head tipped in his direction. 

"You're not the first one to think so, ma'am," Steve said. He shifted his weight, trying to find a way to sit without touching anything. It was a lost cause, but he was used to lost causes. "All due respect-"

"Nothing good comes out of those three words." She shot him a look from under the brim of her clever little hat, but there was a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, but he soldiered on anyway. "With all due respect, what are you doing down here?"

Her lashes dipped. "Mr. Stark has decided, in a goodwill gesture, to take in an orphaned child for a week."

Steve blinked at her. "Excuse me?" 

One of Miss Potts eyebrows arched. "I'm going down to Mr. Hammer's home for wayward boys to select an orphan who will come to live with Mr. Stark for the next week," she said. There was an odd note to her voice, one Steve couldn't quite interpret, and her face had become a mask, smooth and serene.

Steve realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. "I see," he said, and he didn't. But anything else he could say would only get him in trouble, and he'd had his fill of trouble.

She studied him. "You don't approve."

His shoulders twitched into something like a shrug. "It's not my place to approve or disapprove, ma'am."

"But you want to," she said.

Rhodes' eyes flicked up to meet Steve's in the rear view mirror. "The man needs to keep his job," he said, his voice laconic. "Times are tough, Miss Potts."

"Why, yes, they are, Mr. Rhodes." She leaned forward, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Are you going to get him in trouble? It's not well done of you."

His shoulders jerked, and Steve wondered if he was laughing. "Now, Miss Potts. Would I do that?"

"Possibly, you're untrustworthy," she pointed out, and now he was laughing out loud. Smiling, Miss Potts looked back at Steve. "What, exactly, are your objections, Officer Rogers?"

His fingers flexed on the brim of his cap. "It's cruel. Crueler than it needs to be," he said, his voice flat. "It's playing with someone's life. A child." He cut a look in her direction, his jaw set. "For what? A pretty little picture to humanize Mr. Stark? So he forgets about the whole thing in a week, and dumps the boy back into a place that barely bothers to feed him? Where's the fairness in that? Where's the humanity?"

Steve shook his head. "The world's hard enough, right now. It's like the politicians who open soup kitchens when they want the press, when they want the votes, then shutter them when they're not useful to 'em anymore." The more frustrated he got, the worst his accent got, the street kid still there, fists clenched, just under the surface. He shook off the thought. "And who cares about the men who'd depended on that meal?"

He took a deep breath. "So yes. I apologize, Miss Potts, but I don't approve."

Miss Potts studied him, her eyes steady. "Good."

He blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

"Good." Her head turned back towards the front, and he could see her jaw, sharp and hard. "The mayor's office insisted that we take someone along as an escort. I agreed, as long as it was someone familiar with the neighborhood." Her eyes canted in his direction. "And this particular   
orphanage.”

Steve stared out the front windshield of the car, turning that over in his head. “Why?”

“Because this is going to happen,” she said, her voice flat. “So I'd like to...” Her lips pursed. “Minimize the damage.” She shifted in her seat, just a little, her fingers flexing on her bag. “My intent is to try to do right by the child, to see if we can't find him a permanent home with one Mr. Stark's employees.”

He doubted that would happen. But strangely enough, he also believed she was going to try. There was a sort of sincerity to her, maybe it was the stubborn line of her jaw, or the way she looked at him, without disdain or pity or judgment. She was a strange one, but he'd known a lot of tough women in his life. His neighborhood was full of them, and she didn't seem so different, despite her fancy clothes and fancier manners.

Steve nodded. “There's a boy there.” At least he hoped there was. But this, he could work with this. His head was already spinning, possibilities unfolding so fast that he knew it was going to lead him nowhere but into trouble, but he was used to that. He looked at Miss Potts. It might be worth it. “DJ.”

She nodded, her eyes sharp. “Last name?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “Don't even know if he has one. Some of those kids, they don't.” He smiled. “But there's only one there by that name, you'll find him, if you look.”

She nodded again. "Why him?”

Steve considered that. “My ma was from the old country,” he said at last. He shifted in his seat, a bit wary. “Ireland. She talked a lot about the old ways of doing things, the old-” He shrugged. “She was a good Catholic girl, Miss Potts, but some things die hard, in the spaces religion doesn't reach.

“She used to talk about the old things that lived in the wood, the fair folk. The old ones. And they'd take those who were caught alone, or unaware. They'd take children from their cradles, or travelers from the road. Some'd be back in a few days, some in a few minutes. Some never came back at all, but those who did...”

He looked at her. “She said, some could come back from their time below the hills, and they'd be full of stories and laughter and music like none had ever heard. They'd seen something amazing, and it lit them from the inside out, but they kept their feet on safe roads from then on, they kept to the bright places, and away from old oaks. They held cold iron close, and sang soft laments of the way the old ones danced under the moon.”

Miss Potts studied him, her face serious. “And the others?”

“It broke them,” he said his voice flat. “They were the ones who searched forever for a way back, and never found it. They wandered, their minds trapped by something they'd seen that no one around them could understand. The ones that went mad, who drank themselves to death, who became bitter and hard with what they knew they'd never have again.”

Steve realized he was gripping the brim of his hat too hard, bending his cap almost in half. He relaxed his fingers, one by one, trying to smooth it flat again. “Some people can survive being taken,” he said. “And others can't. I think DJ can. I think he can see Mr. Stark's world, your world, and come back down to-” His hand snapped out, gesturing at the dark, ragged buildings that crowded in on the street, too many of them, too close together. “To this.”

Her eyes followed the gesture, her mouth going thin and tight. “I'm going to do my best to-”

"He's not going to get adopted," he said at last, the words hard. "No one's going to take him, Miss Potts. He's-" He shook his head. "He's smart, he likes to work, he doesn't need much. But he's-" He stopped. "He's odd, I suppose. He's too quiet, and too still, and when he moves, it's not the way people expect him to move. He can fixate on things, and sometimes he has trouble following orders and he's stubborn sometimes.”

Miss Potts nodded. “But you want me to choose him anyway.”

Steve nodded. “Yes.”

“Despite all of that.”

“Yes,” Steve repeated. He shook his head. “He's different. Not better, not worse, just different.” He huffed out a breath. “Let me put it this way, Miss Potts. Say you had a domestic who was a hard worker and a loyal one, who did most things well, but never washed the windows the way you wanted them washed. And then one day, you realized that she was simply too short to reach them.” He arched his eyebrows. “Would you fire her and find someone taller? Or would you just give her a stool?”

Miss Potts studied him, one fingertip tapping at her cheek. “I take it you're a proponent of finding a stool,” she said, and there was no mockery to the words, no disdain. Just something like warm curiosity.

“I'm a proponent of making allowances for who people are,” Steve said, his voice flat. “This city only works if we accept that we're not the same, we're never going to be fully the same. Things that are fair aren't always equal, and things that are equal aren't always fair.” He gave a slight shrug. “And things work better if we just give people a stool rather than arguing that they could reach if they really wanted to.”

Miss Potts studied him. “You,” she said at last, her lips curling in a smile, “are going to be trouble.”

“You're not the first to think so,” Steve said, and she burst out laughing. He smiled. “And I doubt you'll be the last, ma'am.”

She nodded. “I think you just might be right.” She extended a hand to him. “No promises. But I'll look for your boy.”

He studied her hand, then glanced up. “And what do you want in exchange?”

Her grin was bright, and for the first time, he noticed the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her pert nose, barely visible beneath her artful application of powder. “Your help, if we should need it.” Her head tipped to the side, and for an instant, she looked like half the girls he'd grown up with, clever, quick girls who survived and thrived the best they could. 

Miss Potts' hand didn't waver. “Do we have a deal, Officer?”

Steve took it. “We have a deal, Miss Potts.”

*

"What do you think?"

"Of what?" Rhodey's eyes slid in Pepper's direction. "Hammer, or this situation?"

"Oh, Hammer's an idiot and the situation is an utter farce," Pepper said. She brushed the curtains back from one of the cracked window panes, looking down at the street. "I meant, what do you think of our escort?"

"Ah." Rhodey came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. Down on the sidewalk below them, Officer Rogers was fending off a half dozen boys with a faint smile, ignoring as they circled him, stealing pieces of penny candy from his pockets. He shook his trunchon at them, making them scatter, but they were all laughing, skittering just out of reach before darting back under his guard. Rhodey braced a hand on the windowframe, his eyes narrowing. "Not what I expected."

"Miss Hill's never steered us wrong," Pepper pointed out.

"True. But she has her own agenda." He looked at her. "You going to take his advice?"

Pepper's chin dipped in the slightest hint of a nod. "Do you have a better idea?"

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You know the kid he's pushing is going to be difficult, don't you?"

Pepper grinned at him as she strode back around Hammer's desk to sink into his creaky, off-balance visitor's chair. "Then he'll fit right in with the rest of the household, won't he?" she said, making Rhodey laugh. She settled in, crossing her legs at the ankles. "Honestly, Rhodey, we're walking a very fine line here, so-"

There was a thump at the door, and she twisted around, just in time to see a boy with a gap-toothed smile poke his head in. "Hello, Miss!" he said, his voice cheerful. "Mr. Hammer's gettin' the files for you." He slipped inside, a battered tray balanced between his hands. "He told me t' offer you some tea."

He set the tray down on the desk with a surprising amount of grace. The teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl and milk pot barely moved across the surface, and he gave her a bright grin. "Would you like tea, Miss?"

She found herself smiling back. "That's very kind of you, thank you."

Rhodey pushed away from the wall. "I'm going to go make sure that the car isn't stripped for parts, Miss Potts," he said. "Our escort, while pleasant, doesn't seem to have things under control down there."

"Of course, Mr. Rhodes," Pepper said, accepting the tea from the boy. "Do keep Officer Rogers out of trouble."

"Oh, Rogers's a good egg," the boy said, offering Pepper the milk. "They'll joke with him, make no mistake, Miss, but no one's gonna cross him if he tells 'em no.” He gave her a bright grin, his freckled nose wrinkling. “They know better than that.”

Pepper considered the cream with a critical eye. She wasn't sure it was worth the risk. She handed it back with a smile. “Thank you,” she said, as he handed her the sugar bowl. "So you know Officer Rogers?" 

He nodded, his pale hair flopping over his forehead. "Everyone down these parts knows Officer Rogers," he said. He leaned up against Hammer's battered desk, rocking his weight back on his heels, clearly happy to stay and gossip. "He's a good one. Most of the police round here, they'd as soon give you a sound thrashing as talk to you, but Rogers is a decent one. He knows everyone, by name even, an' he's fair.”

“I take it you're a good judge of character?” she said, blowing across the surface of her tea. The smell was... Questionable. She lowered the cup back to the saucer without tasting it.

"When you're out on the streets, Miss, you learn right quick when people have bad intentions towards you," he said. He blinked, an expression of consideration crossing his young face. "Or maybe only the ones who make it do. An' the ones who don't, no one ever hears from them again, do they?"

Pepper stared at him, her chest aching, but no reply seemed necessary, or even expected.

"A fella came by here, an' we all knew he weren't right, we could tell. If you saw him on the street, you'd cross t' get away from him, quick as you could, but ol' Hammer, he didn't listen t' us. An' this fella, he was going to take little Mick, an' he's only six. He's just a baby, Miss, an' none of us liked it.

"A couple of the boys, they slipped out at night an' went all the way cross town to find Rogers, an' they told him what was happening, best they could, I suppose. But when the fella came by the next morning to sign the paperwork an' pick up Mick, Rogers was waiting for him." The boy's teeth flashed in a smile that was sharp and hard and vicious. "Ain't none of us knows what was said, Miss, but Rogers put the fear of the good Lord into that one. None of us ever saw him round these parts again."

He collected the tray. “Roger's good enough, and they know it, Miss. If you need to trust a copper, well, you can't do better." He peered at her cup. "Can I get you more tea?"

She glanced down at her still full cup. "No, thank you,” she said with a slight smile.

He grinned. "Yeah, it's pretty lousy, ain't it?" He headed for the door, the tray balanced on his hip. "Hope you find what you're looking for, Miss."

"Thank you," she repeated, and then, at the last second, she twisted around in the chair. "Officer Rogers said to keep an eye out for one of the boys here, maybe you know him?

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Well, I know everyone, Miss. But-" He grinned again, this one wide and bright. "Bet you mean DJ."

She nodded. "Yes, can you point him out to me if you-"

He tugged on his ear, making a face. "He's... Not here right now," he said, his head tipping to the side. "But if he pops up during your visit, you'll know." 

"Really." Pepper braced her elbow on the arm of the chair and propped her chin on her hand. "And how will I know?"

The boy paused. "He'll be in trouble," he said, and opened the office door. Outside in the hallway, a gaggle of boys were gathered around the door, doing their best to peer into the office. He took a swing at them with one hand, making the crockery rattle on his tray. "Shove off, the lot of you, if Hammer catches you, we'll all catch hell."

"Ain't our fault you can't outrun ol' Hammer hands," one of the boys shot back, but they scattered in front of him, feet clattering along the worn wood of the hall. 

Pepper's new friend looked back at her with a grin. “Be careful, Miss. Ol' man Hammer'd steal the last coin from his mother's purse, an' not miss a bit of sleep over it.” He tugged on his ear, his gaze sharp. “But you didn't hear it from me.”

Pepper struggled not to smile. “I appreciate the information.” She reached for her purse. “And-” She pulled out a half dollar, the silver gleaming between her gloved fingertips. She held it out to him, one eyebrow arched. “And if you have any other helpful tips?”

His hand snapped out, the coin disappearing in an instant. “You'll be the first to know, Miss,” he said. And with a grin and a wink, he ducked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Smiling to herself, Pepper turned in her chair, reaching for the cup she'd left sitting on the edge of Hammer's desk. Halfway there, her hand hovering in mid-air, she froze.

There was a boy standing on the windowsill, clinging to the building three stories above the street below.

The boy stared at her, big dark eyes curious under the tumbled mop of dark curls. He was barefoot, his shoes tied together by the laces and thrown over his shoulder. The ragged cuffs of his too-short pants ending well above his bony ankles, his shirt was torn at the hem. His fingers, dark with dirt, clung to the ragged wood of windowframe, and as she watched, he swayed back and forth, finding his balance against the side of the building. But his gaze never broke from hers, his dark eyes unblinking as he studied her, as if confused by her presence.

Pepper raised one hand, wiggling her fingers in a half wave, and his head tipped to the side, the gesture quick and almost birdlike. But he raised one of his hands, waving back with a quick, gamine smile.

"You must be DJ," she said, her lips twitching. 

He considered that. "Yes," he said at last, with such conviction that Pepper had to choke back a laugh.

"Hello, DJ," she said. She leaned forward in her chair, her hands braced on her handbag. "I'm Miss Potts."

Another beat of silence as he considered that. "Hello," he said at last, and then the heavy tread of footsteps in the hall brought his head up. He glanced down, at the street below him, and Pepper came half out of her chair.

"Don't-" she started, but he was already scrambling in through the window, landing on Hammer's chair with enough force to send it spinning, and from there, launching himself across the desk and towards the closet. Pepper watched, stunned, as he hopped up, one foot landing on the doorknob and using it to propel himself upwards. His fingers closed on the transom window above the closet door and before the office door could even start to open, he wiggled through the gap and out of sight.

The whole thing took less than a minute, and Pepper found herself on her feet, her handbag clutched to her chest. The hinges on the office door creaked, and she collapsed back into her seat with more speed than grace. Hammer plodded past, a stack of folders balanced in his arms. "Now, now," he crowed, his broad face flushed with exertion. He dropped the folders onto the desk with a thump, and grinned at her, his spectacles crooked on his nose. "Let's find you a proper little urchin!”

Pepper's mouth opened. She smiled. “I think I've already found one,” she said.

Hammer paused, caught in the act of digging through the files. “You... Have?”

Pepper stood. “I have,” she said, opening the closet door with a flick of her wrist. The boy, caught off guard, stared up at her, an expression of betrayal on his face.

Hammer came to his feet so fast that his chair rolled back to hit the wall with a thump. “You-” he started, and Pepper turned a wide-eyed, innocent look in his direction. He pulled himself up short. “Ah. Miss Potts.” He straightened his tie with fingers that weren't quite steady. “This...” His teeth dug in on the words. “Young man missed morning roll call. So. He's been-”

“He's been here, talking to me,” Pepper said cheerfully. “And I find him to be just delightful, so I think we'll make everything easy on you, and-”

“I'm sorry, but he's not available to go with you,” Hammer started. His eyes were locked on DJ, something unstable bubbling there just beneath the surface. “He can't be rewarded with a jaunt off to the country, not when he's been such a-” He swallowed, a forced smile slipping across his face. “Problem.”

Pepper looked down at DJ. “I cannot imagine this sweet child being a problem.” She crouched down, her arms looped around her knees. "Would you like to come with me?" she asked, giving the boy her most winning smile.

Big dark eyes considered her, then blinked with slow deliberation. His head tipped to the side, his eyes flicking towards Hammer, and Pepper could almost see the gears turning in his mind mind as he weighed his options. Pepper waited, struggling to keep a straight face, as he came to his conclusion.

He nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Pepper straightened up. “Wonderful,” she said, offering him a hand. “Why don't you go back to your room and get your things?” Her eyes slid up, meeting Hammer's. “While the adults work things out.”

“Now, Miss Potts-”

Pepper put a gentle hand between DJ's shoulders, guiding him towards the door. “You don't need help, do you?” she asked him, but he was already shaking his head. “Wonderful, I could tell you were a very self-sufficient young man.” She opened the door to the hall and ushered him through. “There you go, you can meet me downstairs, all right?” 

He looked up at her, and there was something she couldn't quite read in his face. As if he was trying to determine if she was to be trusted. If she could be trusted.

Pepper smiled at him. “I think you'll find someone waiting for you outside,” she whispered, and he nodded. And with that, he was scrambling out the door and down the hallway, his feet flying over the floor.

Pepper shut the door behind him, turning to face Hammer without releasing the doorknob. She smiled, slow and deliberate. “Now, Mr. Hammer,” she said, pitching her voice for that soothing, coaxing tone that made stupid men relax, sure that they had the upper hand. “I'm sure that we can reach some sort of accord.”

He smiled back, his pupils dilating a bit behind the lenses of his spectacles, but he shook his head. “That boy is headed only for a stern punishment,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “So, we can just-”

Pepper set a hand down on top of the stack of files, preventing him from opening them. He looked up, startled, and Pepper smiled. “Name your price.”

Hammer blinked. And then subsided back into his chair. “Now,” he said, his mouth stretching into a broad, unsavory smile, “we understand each other.”

*

“I do not know why I'm awake right now.”

“Because you are a man of many responsibilities,” Edwin Jarvis said, his voice crisp. He emerged from the closet, a hanger in one hand and a matching tie in the other. 

Tony Stark gave the tie a look, regretting every moment of this already. “And I am a man well known for doing almost everything to keep from actually having to live up to those responsibilities,” he said, buttoning his shirt up and tucking it into his pants. “Also, a man who's had next to no sleep, so-”

“Hmmmm.” Jarvis gave him a sharp look, his eyes narrowed over the knife-blade of his nose. “I do believe I mentioned yesterday that you had quite a schedule today, and that perhaps abandoning your work and taking to your bed would be best.” He tapped a knuckle against the underside of Tony's jaw, nudging his head up. “If I remember correctly, sir, you were less than swayed by my argument.”

Tony struggled not to smile as Jarvis knotted the tie, settling the strip of silk in place and adjusting Tony's collar. “Do you pay extra for the 'I told you so's, Jarvis?”

“I should say not, sir.” Jarvis took a step back, considering Tony for a moment before he reached for the hanger. “It is included, most amicably, with my general service to you and this household. Arms up, please.”

Tony did as he was told, mostly because it took a lot less effort than fighting it. “I do notice that it is part of our daily discussions, yes,” he said, as Jarvis settled the vest in place. Tony rolled his shoulders, checking the fit.

“Indeed it is, sir, and one might do well to wonder if perhaps there were a way to avoid it,” Jarvis mused. He buttoned Tony's vest, his fingers quick and steady. “Perhaps you have some ideas on that front?”

“You could just stop reminding me of my poor choices,” Tony suggested, amused despite himself.

“And if I were to do so, I would be failing in my duty to you,” Jarvis said. He turned on his heel, the movement brisk and efficient, to collect Tony's jacket from the hanger. “Which is, of course, utterly unthinkable.”

“You should think about it,” Tony said, smoothing his tie down. “It would make both of our days much easier.”

“Yet much less fulfilling.” Jarvis held out Tony's jacket, and Tony slipped into it.

Tony buttoned the jacket, and glanced at himself in the mirror as Jarvis collected the hanger. "Well?" Tony asked.

Jarvis looked up. "Sir?"

Tony held his hands out to his sides. "Do I pass muster?"

Jarvis's head tipped back, his eyes narrowed in consideration. He reached out and straightened the silk square in Tony's pocket, his fingers flicking the fabric into place. "Always, sir," he said, a faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back, slipping his watch from his pocket. "And right on time."

"Far less common," Tony said, striding towards the door. 

"It is occasionally a problem," Jarvis agreed. He fell into step right behind Tony. 

"Is Happy waiting for me, or is Rhodey doing the driving today?"

"No.”

Tony pinched the bridged of his nose. “Jarvis...”

“Yes, sir?” 

Tony paused at the top of the staircase. "Don't I have a meeting?"

"A very important one," Jarvis said, his hands tucked together at the small of his back.

"And where are-"

"Tony!"

Tony turned, looking down as Obie came striding across the main hall, his hands held out in front of him. He beamed up at Tony, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Look at you!" he boomed, and Tony caught himself smiling.

"Shouldn't you be at a factory or office somewhere?" he asked, tucking his hands in his pockets before he strolled down the stairs. "I'm fairly certain that you should be-"

Obie was laughing. "Took a day for our new project," he said. He paused at the foot of the stairs, his hands propped on his hips. "Think that things can toddle along without me for one day."

"Probably not." But Tony paused at the base of the stairs, letting Obie pull him in for a back-thumping hug. "Seriously. What are you doing-"

"C'mon." Obie wrapped his arm around Tony's shoulders, his fingers almost painfully into Tony's arm. "Let's go meet our new guest."

"Our-" Tony glanced back at Jarvis, his mouth opening for the next word, but he didn't have a chance to manage it. Jarvis's face was unreadable, his usual calm and expressionless mask, and Tony had a moment's sense of loss, and then Obie was dragging him forward.

In the front vestible, just inside the front door, Pepper was crouched down, face to face and eye to eye with a little dark haired boy. Tony watched, confused, as she pulled the child's cap off, smoothing his hair down with careful fingers. "There we go," she said, smiling at him. She turned the hat over in her hands, trying to flatten the fabric. “This is too small for you, isn't it? Maybe we'll talk to May, she'll get us some better clothes for you.”

She looked up, her eyes catching Tony's. She stood, holding a hand out to the boy. “Mr. Stark, may I introduce DJ. He'll be staying with us for the next week."

Tony stared down at the child, who stared back, big dark eyes unblinking and unreadable. There was a strange stillness to the boy, a solumn consideration in his face. There was a bruise on his jaw and his hair, despite Pepper's efforts, was a tangled mop of dark curls, but his chin was up, his gaze sharp.

Tony looked back at Pepper. "Why?" he asked, and Obie stepped in front of him.

"Hey, sport," he said, his voice booming in the small space. The boy flinched, his feet skittering backwards on the polished marble floor. Obie didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care. He reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with a rough hand. "You're gonna have such a great time!"

The boy ducked away from him, moving back and behind Pepper, his hand reaching up to grab hers. She took it. "This is Mr. Stane," she said, a polished smile on her face. The boy looked up at her, and she gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. He doesn't live here."

Obie burst out laughing. "It's true, I don't," he said. He looked back at Tony. "Remember, we decided that you were going to take in an orphan for a week?" 

Tony stared at him blankly. "We did?" he asked at last.

"We did," Pepper said, and there was a note in her voice that he had learned to be wary of. 

"Right," Tony said. He looked down at the child, who looked back at him, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Right." He managed a smile. "Welcome."

Pepper gave him a look, so it was clear that he wasn't meeting expectations, but she should be used to that. She gestured behind Tony. "This is Jarvis," she said. "He is in charge here."

"Now, Miss Potts, we both know nothing could be further from the truth,” Jarvis said. He smiled down at the boy. “I am here to serve, and I'm quite pleased to be serving you.” He sketched a slight bow, his back ramrod straight. “If you'd like to come with me, I'll introduce you to the rest of the staff, young sir." His voice was warm, soft and kind and coaxing, the sort of voice a child could trust, and when he held out his hand, the boy took it.

The boy glanced back at Pepper, who gave him a bright smile. "Let's all go," she said.

Tony glanced at the door to the workshop stairs. "Actually, I have to-"

Pepper slipped her arm through his, her fingers locking on his elbow. "Let's all go," she said, her teeth flashing in a bright smile. 

Tony gave in with something resembling dignity. "Let's all go," he agreed.

Obie fished his pocket watch out of his vest, squinting down at the face. “Actually, I have a meeting,” he said, his voice jovial. “So I'll leave you to it.” He gave the boy a considering look. “Talk to May,” he said to Pepper. “I've got the press coming by to get some pictures, but I'd like him to be a bit more...” He wobbled a hand through the air. “Let's aim for presentable. Nothing too fancy, all right?”

“Oh, yes, if there's anything this household is known for, it's restraint,” Pepper said.

Obie gave her a look, and Tony held up a hand. “We'll- We'll just let Jarvis handle it.”

“That's my boy.” Obie reached out, clapping a hand on Tony's shoulder. “Remember, this is important. We need to shake this 'Iron Man' thing. With the problems we've been having-”

“Are you hungry?” Jarvis asked the boy, his voice cutting through Obie's with ruthless intent. “Because I believe that Mrs. Parker just finished a fresh batch of tarts.”

Obie paused, his eyes darting back to the boy. “Sounds good,” he said, back to his jovial self. He gave Tony's shoulder a squeeze, the grip just bordering on painful before he finally let go. “Now. I'm counting on you, Tony.”

“That's your first mistake,” Tony said, letting Pepper pull him towards the stairs that lead down to the kitchen. He waited until Obie was out of earshot, then leaned towards her, pitching his voice low. “When, exactly, did I agree to this?”

She stared straight ahead, her jaw a sharp, hard line. “Last month.”

“Ah.” Tony considered that. “Was I drunk?” She gave him a look. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“You were not,” she said. “You were, however, not paying attention.”

“Which, after the drinking, is probably my biggest problem,” Tony mused.

“The two are pretty much tied for the traits that cause you the most problems,” she said. She took a breath. “I think you need to be more careful about letting Obie handle things like this.”

“We've been over this,” Tony said.

“Yes, we have.” 

“Obie's handling a lot of things that-”

She slanted a look in his direction. “That you don't want to handle,” she said, her voice silken. “And now here were are. With a house guest for a week.”

Tony nodded. “I don't think I agreed to this.”

Her fingers tightened on his elbow. “Would we be here if you hadn't?”

“I'm going to say yes,” Tony said.

“And that's because you aren't paying attention,” she said, patting his arm. “Let's go get a tart.”


	2. Chapter 2

The array of cars was dizzying.

They sat in neatly ordered rows, dozens of metal monsters, all polished to a mirror shine. The majority of them were black, trimmed with gleaming silver chrome and riding high on white wall tires. But a few, scattered here in there, were painted in sharp, brilliant splashes of color, green and yellow and rich, mellow gold.

And one, a brilliant cherry red that seemed to glow even in the muted light of the garage.

“That one's my favorite.”

Steve looked up, caught off guard. Rhodes was smiling at him, his broad face friendly and relaxed. Still, Steve took a step back, his hand falling back to his side. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn't thinking, it's-” He glanced back at the car, caught by the look of it. There was something beautiful about the flow of the metal, about the compact, clean lines, about the way the paint flowed over the surface, gleaming as if it was still wet. “It's beautiful.”

Rhodes' smile only got wider. “I'm sure Tony would be pleased to hear you think so.” His head tipped in the direction of the car. “That's one of his.”

Steve frowned. “One of his?”

“Mr. Stark designed it,” Rhodes said, lifting the hood on a nearby car. “And built it, for that matter, but the design was the hard part.”

Unable to resist, Steve reached out, his fingers just ghosting over the shining red metal of the front fender. “How's it drive?”

“Fast,” Rhodes said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. There was a toolbox within easy reach, and he pushed it open with a practiced movement. “Very fast.”

Steve bit back a smile. “I take it you don't mind driving it,” he said, his fingers still stroking back and forth over the fender, enjoying the smooth rise of the metal beneath his palm. 

“I don't often get the chance, but when I do, I take it,” Rhodes said, leaning into the engine compartment. “Every time.” 

Steve looked up, his palm still resting on the curve of the fender. “I thought you were his driver?”

“He's not my driver, he's my chief designer. Though part of his contract is that he does get to borrow whatever car he wants.”

Steve jerked back, his hand falling to his side, caught off guard by the unexpected voice. He'd seen Tony Stark before, waving at the camera in newsreel footage, grinning out from the full color covers of magazines and the stark black and white of newspaper pages. Handsome and charismatic, he drew press coverage without even trying. Steve knew what Tony Stark looked like.

Seeing him in person was something else entirely.

Stark came striding across the garage floor, tall and lean, his dark hair artfully disordered, his goatee neatly trimmed. He moved with a fluidity, with a grace, that caught the eye, his back straight and his shoulders square. His hands were tucked in his pockets, his artfully tailored jacket flowing easily over his slim form.

And when he glanced at them, his dark, gleaming eyes locking with Steve's, Steve's mouth went dry. One of Stark's dark eyebrows arched, his lips curving up. “And who's this?”

Rhodes gestured in Steve's direction, his attention still fixated on the open hood of the car. “Officer Steve Rogers. NYPD.”

Stark's other eyebrow arched. “And to what do we owe the pleasure, Officer?” 

Steve's throat worked, but before he could manage to form a word, Rhodes filled the silence. “He was assigned to escort us this morning. As soon as Happy's back, I'm going to drive him back to the city.”

“I told him I could take the train,” Steve started, but Stark was already waving him off.

“We have cars, some of them even run,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. He tossed it aside, the fabric falling over the hood of another car. He didn't seem to notice. Or care. 

“Some of them,” Rhodes agreed. He shook his head. “Occasionally.”

Stark's lips kicked up in a lopsided smile. “Judging by the expression on your face, though, I'm assuming this isn't one of them.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up. “What've you done to my engine, Rhodes?”

“Me?” Rhodes wiped his hands on a rag, squinting down at the engine block. “No, no. Let's not bring me into this. It's you.” He stabbed a finger in Stark's direction. “You've run this thing into the ground. I'm just trying to put it back to life."

Stark grinned, his dark eyes glinting. “How about we just agree to blame Happy for this one?” he asked, his voice cheerful.

Rhodes braced a hand on the edge of the hood. “Right,” he said, but he was smiling, too. He reached for a wrench. “You gonna help me with this, or just stand around looking fancy?”

“I do like looking fancy, but-” Stark caught the wrench that Rhodes tossed to him. He spun it around his palm, long fingers flicking through the air. His head tipped in Steve's direction, and he flipped off a salute that didn't seem nearly as mocking as it should've been. “Don't worry, Officer, we'll have everything in order in due time. You won't need to look for a trolley station.”

“I don't-” Steve started, right before a familiar pair of dark eyes popped up on the far side of the car, little hands locking down on the metal. Steve rocked forward, one hand coming up. “Hey, don't touch that.”

Rhodes looked up, his face puzzled. “What?” He glanced over, and his expression relaxed into a smile. “Oh, hello there. Where did you come from?”

Stark blinked down at DJ. DJ blinked back up at him. “I thought Jarvis was watching you,” he said. He leaned one hand on the side of the car, bracing the other on his hip. He seemed more curious than anything else, as if DJ was a strange, unfamiliar species that had somehow made it into his house. “You're a sneaky one, aren't you?”

DJ gave him a wide, proud smile, and Steve bit back a laugh. Stark glanced at him, that perfect eyebrow arched again. “Do you have something to add to the discussion, Officer?”

Steve felt his face heat. “He's very fast, and very quiet when he wants to be,” he said. He held out a hand to DJ. “Come on, back inside. You're going to be in the way.”

DJ's face soured in an instant, and he ducked down behind the car, until just the top of his head was visible, big dark eyes peering along the edge of the metal. Steve shook his head. “We can still see you. You know that, right?”

There was a beat of silence. “No,” DJ said, with a great deal of confidence, and Rhodes had a hand clasped over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Stark crossed his arms over his chest, not seeming to notice how that wrinkled his pristine silk shirt. “You like engines?” he asked.

DJ nodded. “He likes anything he can disassemble,” Steve said. “And... Reassemble. He's pretty good at it.”

“Excellent.” Stark turned around. “Let's get you a stool, you can hold things for us.”

“I don't think-” Steve started.

“Sir!” A man in a slightly old-fashioned black suit came hurrying across the garage floor, his aristocratic, fine boned face holding just a trace of panic. “Have you seen-”

“It's all right, Jarvis, we've got him.” Stark came striding back, a stepstool swinging from one hand. He gave the flustered man an amused look. “Losing your touch?”

Jarvis drew himself up, his back going ramrod straight. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, his British accent getting crisper with every word. “In the last few years, I have not had much chance to look after a child.” He paused, his mouth pursing. “Other than yourself, of course.”

Stark set the stool down. “Been a few years since I qualified as a child, Jay.”

“If you say so, sir,” Jarvis said, and Stark looked up at the ceiling, his expression that of a man praying for patience. Rhodes was bent forward, his head buried in his folded arms. DJ, taking advantage of the distraction, was digging through the toolbox with a great deal of enthusiasm. Jarvis caught his hand, pulling it away with a warm smile. “Be careful, please.”

DJ nodded. “I can help,” he said, his voice hopeful.

“Yes, I'm sure you can,” Jarvis told him, and moved the stepstool into place next to the car. “Here now. Let's see if there's anything we can do to help without getting in the way. All right?”

DJ nodded, and Steve took a quiet step back. He could wait for his ride outside.

He had to leave eventually. It might as well be now.

*

“And we're done!” Jan sat back on her heels, tossing her measuring tape around her neck and reaching for her notebook. “Thank you, you were wonderful.”

DJ scrambled down off of the chair, his bare feet landing with a muffled thud on the carpeted floor of the library. Jan smiled at him, her eyes dancing. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

DJ nodded, and on the other side of the massive mahogany desk, Tony grinned down at his paperwork. “He's honest, I like that.”

Jan gave him a look. “You would,” she said, sweeping her neat, bobbed hair behind her ear. She still had the bright, brilliant swirl of a flapper about her, as if the champagne bubbles had taken root in her blood during the twenties and now nothing could shake them loose. She reached for her notebook, her pencil flicking over the page. “Like two peas in a pod, you two.”

Tony scribbled a signature along the bottom of a contract, and passed it to Pepper, who replaced it with another. He gave her a look. “Not signing this.”

She set a finger against the signature line. “Yes.” She picked up his pen with her other hand. “You are.”

Tony rocked back in the chair. “We don't-”

“Yes, we do,” Pepper said, cutting him off with ruthless efficiency. 

“Right, but-” Pepper tapped him on the nose with the pen, and he stopped dead. Across the room, Jan stifled a giggle, and he glared at her. “Do not encourage her.”

“Darling, I am a one woman Pepper Potts Pep Squad,” Jan said, her eyelashes fluttering. “You should know that by now.”

“Yes, but we were friends before you even met her, so-”

“And you need no encouragement, and besides...” Jan stood, brushing her short skirt into place. “Us working girls need to stick together. Don't we, Miss Potts?”

“We do, Miss Van Dyne,” Pepper responded with a bright smile. “Thank you for coming, I really was only hoping you might have something in stock that might fit him.”

Jan tucked her notebook away in her bag. “And I do,” she said. “But it's been forever since I've been by, Tony just doesn't entertain the way he used to.”

“Yes, can't imagine why that is,” Tony said. DJ had settled down on the carpet next to the desk again, his attention focused on a massive book of mechanical diagrams that Jarvis had found for him. Sprawled out on his stomach, he seemed perfectly content to pour over every page. Tony kind of wished he could join him. Instead, he reached for another stack of paperwork. “How much more of this do we have?” he asked Pepper.

“We would have less if you hadn't been avoiding it for the past few weeks,” Pepper said. “Can you please remember your manners and thank Jan for coming out here so DJ will have something new to wear?”

Tony's head rolled in Jan's direction. She gave him a bright smile and hopped up on the corner of his desk, one leg swinging back and forth. “She feeds on praise,” Tony said to Pepper. “It makes her stronger. Almost-” He gestured at Jan. “Unnaturally powerful.”

“Yes.” Jan's teeth flashed. “I like that. Unnaturally powerful.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Something to strive for.”

“Well, I'm grateful,” Pepper said. “And I'm sure that DJ will be glad to have some clothes that fit a bit better.” She stood. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“Oh, I would like to,” Jan said, making a face. She slid off of Tony's desk, swinging the end of her tape measure like a feather boa. “But Hank's expecting me.”

“We can send someone for him,” Pepper offered.

“No, we can't,” Tony said, and he felt the pen bounce off of the top of his head. “I know that was you, Potts.”

“I wasn't trying to hide the fact,” Pepper said, her voice tart. To Jan, she said, “Please? I could use some conversation that doesn't center around motor oil.”

“Hey, we don't-” Tony started, and both women ignored him.

“I can't, not tonight,” Jan said. She reached for her wrap and then paused. “Do you still have that French chef?”

“The Frenchest,” Tony said, grinning down at his paperwork. He crossed off a clause in a contract with a heavy hand. 

“We do,” Pepper said, her eyes rolling up. “We... Absolutely do.”

Jan clapped her hands. “Oh, I do love that man. Perhaps next Wednesday?”

“It's a date,” Pepper said, brushing a kiss on Jan's cheek. “Do not cancel on us again.”

“Darling, I would never!” Tossing her head, Jan headed for the door. “DJ, if you ever want to be a model, you come and see me. I bet you photograph like an absolute dream.”

“Well, we'll find out tomorrow,” Tony said. “So I hear.”

“You hear correctly,” Pepper said. “Jan, let me walk you out.”

Jan waved her off. “I know the way. And I promise not to sneak any of Tony's baubles into my purse on the way out.”

“I know you stole that vase, Jan,” Tony called after her.

Jan leaned back into the library. “I didn't steal it, I told you, I'm just borrowing it!”

Tony arched an eyebrow at her. “And when do you plan to return it?”

“I'm sure I'll eventually move to a house where it doesn't fit the décor,” Jan said. “But in the meantime, don't worry, I had the Metropolitan Museum make me one of those little white placards they put on their exhibits, and I mounted it right next to the vase. 'From the Collection of Anthony Stark.'

“'On permanent loan'?” Tony finished for her.

“Extended. Extended loan,” Jan said, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Right,” Tony said, as Jarvis came up behind Jan, a small silver serving tray balanced on one hand. “Jarvis, please remove this interloper from the property.”

“Good evening, Miss Van Dyne,” Jarvis said with a smile. “So good to see you, you get more lovely by the day.”

“And unnaturally powerful, I'll have you know,” Jan said. “I'll send someone over tomorrow with some clothes for DJ, just have him try them and keep whatever you want.”

Jarvis sketched a bow. “Very good, madam. And may I say, we are so grateful for your help.”

Jan ghosted a kiss against Jarvis' cheek. “For you, Mr. Jarvis? Anything.”

“Send me a bill, Janet,” Tony told her.

Jan gave him a look, a born vamp, and threw her measuring tape around her neck like a scarf. “I'll just keep your vase.”

Before he could get another word in, she was gone, a faint trill of laughter echoing in her wake. Tony grinned at nothing at all. “That woman,” he said, shaking his head.

“How she puts up with you, I have no idea,” Pepper said, shifting through the paperwork. “Is it dinnertime, Jarvis?”

“Very nearly, Miss Potts,” Jarvis said. He leaned over, offering the tray to DJ. “I thought you might like a piece of bread and butter, to tide you over?” DJ rolled into a sitting position, taking the plate from the tray with a shy smile. Jarvis smiled back. “Mrs. Parker baked that loaf just for you.”

“Do the rest of us get any?” Tony asked.

“Perhaps, if the young master should care to share,” Jarvis said. “Dinner tonight is roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and giblet gravy, green beans and pearl onions, roast chestnut stuffing and sweet cranberry orange aspic.”

“What, no dessert?” Pepper said.

“I do believe Mrs. Parker has made us a lovely berry cobbler with fresh vanilla bean ice cream,” Jarvis said.

“Good I ask now, so I can save room.” Pepper stacked up a pile of paperwork with a brisk motion. “DJ, want to come with me? We can get washed up for dinner.”

DJ, stuffing the last crust of his bread into his mouth, nodded. Rolling to his feet, he collected the book, closing it carefully and returning it to Tony's desk. Tony smiled at him. “You done with that? Should I put it back, or do you want to keep looking at it?”

DJ's fingers lingered on the cover of the book. “Keep looking?” he asked, his voice cautious.

“Okay,” Tony said. “We'll leave it right there, then, and you can come get it again tonight after dinner, or tomorrow morning.” He stood up. “You can take it, whenever you want. All right?”

DJ nodded, and scrambled over to take Pepper's hand. “You can read other books, too,” she said. “There are a lot in here. Enough to keep even a very good reader going for a while.”

Tony watched them go, and when the door shut behind them, he pushed himself up and collected his jacket from the back of his chair. “If we're about to eat, why bring him something that'll spoil his meal?” he asked Jarvis, shaking the wrinkles out of the fabric.

Jarvis took the jacket away from him, smoothing it out. “Because the dining room is very large, and very formal,” he said, his voice gentle. “And it is his first meal with us, with our plates and our silverware and our manners.” He held the jacket out to Tony. “A frightening thing to a full grown adult. For a child, perhaps a bit too much.”

Internally, Tony cursed himself. “Right.” He slid into the jacket, letting Jarvis set it in place on his shoulders. “So. Bread and butter.”

“Everything is a bit easier to take when you have a bit of something familiar in your belly,” Jarvis said. He stepped around Tony, straightening his lapels. “So if nothing else on the table looks or tastes familiar, he doesn't have to be afraid. He doesn't have to be hungry.”

“Bread's not much of a meal,” Tony said.

Jarvis gave him a look. “No, but it sustained you more than once. A slice of bread and a cup of milk was enough, even in this house.”

“Because you or my mother fed it to me.” Tony shot a glare in Jarvis's direction. "What am I supposed to do with him?" he asked, his voice pitched low. "I don't know a thing about children."

Jarvis's eyebrows arched. "How odd," he said. "That is almost, word for word, what I said when your father handed you to me, all those years ago."

"Is there a point to this?" Tony asked him.

"The point is, you are a clever man who will adapt. I have a great deal of confidence in you," Jarvis said.

“I don't like children,” Tony told him. 

Jarvis' lips twitched. “Sir. Children are just very small people.”

“And I don't like people very much, either, so-”

“And yet, somehow, they like you.” Jarvis took him by the shoulders, turning him towards the door. “Now, sir, if you'd care to-”

“I demand a double serving of dessert for this, Jarvis.”

“You can have my serving, sir.”

*

He woke up to someone knocking at his door.

Steve blinked slowly into full consciousness. His head was throbbing, and for a second, he considered rolling back over and putting his pillow over his head. But whoever was knocking on the door, they were polite, but persistent. Steve got the feeling that they could outlast him.

So he pushed himself up, inch by agonizing inch, into a sitting position. “Knock it off,” he called, his head falling into his hands. “I'm coming.”

The knocking stopped, and Steve scraped his hands down his face. “Goddammit,” he mumbled into his palms. “I haven't had enough sleep for this.” He grabbed his pants from the end of the bed, shaking them out. “Not that there is enough sleep for this.”

He managed to pull on his pants and shoes, grabbing his holster from the hook next to the bed. He didn't bother with his suspenders, leaving them hanging down at his sides, or his shirt. Anyone who showed up at his door at this hour deserved to see him in his undershirt. He shrugged his holster into place, and headed for the door.

Steve opened it just far enough to peer out into the dim depths of the hallway. Outside, a man was waiting, big and broad, with the shoulders and the nose of a man who'd seen the inside of a boxing ring. His heavy brown coat and cap had seen better days, but they appeared to have been recently laundered, and his shoes were polished to a high shine, He wasn't one of Steve's neighbors, but there was something familiar about him. Steve squinted at him, trying to place his face. “Can I help you?” he asked, his hand braced on the butt of his pistol.

The fellow doffed his flat cap, his broad Irish face. “Sorry 'bout this,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “I'm Hogan. Happy Hogan, one of-” His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “One of Mr. Stark's men?”

“Oh. Right. His driver.” Steve took a step back, waving Hogan through the door. “Come in. I-” He shook his head. “Is there a problem?”

“You might say that,” Hogan said, ducking into Steve's apartment. “If you could come with me, please?”

Steve paused, halfway to the stove. “I've got a shift,” he said. “What's going on?”

“And that'll be handled, don't you worry,” Hogan said, his voice cheerful. “But we've got a bit of a situation, and Miss Potts thought that you might be able to help.”

Steve stopped dead. “What kind of a situation?”

*

“You lost him?”

The voice caught him off guard, and Tony's shoulders went tight. But despite the provocation, he didn't turn around. “Check with Bruce and Peter, I think they're down in the orchard,” he said to Bobbi, who nodded. “He might be in one of the outbuildings.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Her eyes flicked over Tony's shoulder, and then back to his. “Should I check in with Jarvis?:”

“He's checking the attic. Rhodey's down in the garage, probably easier to find him,” Tony said. 

She nodded. “You got it, boss.” She headed off, and Tony turned to face the interloper.

The cop hadn't gotten any less attractive since Tony had seen him last, and that was somehow infuriating. Tall and well built, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, he cut an impressive figure, even in his slightly worn uniform. He had a face that would've been painfully gorgeous, if not for his ever-present scowl. He met Tony's eyes without flinching, obviously neither impressed nor intimidated.

Tony wasn't quite sure it that was annoying or just really attractive. Possibly both.

"We didn't 'lose' him," Tony said, stressing the word. "We put him to bed last night, and woke up this morning to find he wasn't there."

Officer Rogers stared at him, his face unreadable. "Yes," he said at last. "You should get used to that."

Tony opened his mouth, but before he could say something that absolutely would've gotten him in trouble, Pepper appeared in the library door. “Officer Rogers!” She hurried across the main hall, her day dress fluttering around her knees with each step. “Thank you for coming.”

And just like that, Tony might as well not have existed. Rogers turned to face Pepper, pulling his hat from his head. “Ma'am,” he said, and for Pepper, his voice was polite and respectful. 

She took his hand between both of hers, squeezing his fingers. “We don't know how long he's been gone, but we're fairly certain he hasn't left the grounds.”

“Which still leaves a lot of space to cover.” Rogers looked up, all the way up, at the ceiling of the grand hall, two stories above them. “May I see his bedroom?”

“We did check there first,” Tony said, and Pepper gave him a look.

“Yes, I but know him a bit better than you do,” Rogers said, his voice cool and polite. “So. If you don't mind Mr. Stark?”

“Right this way,” Pepper said, gesturing at the grand staircase, and Rogers fell in behind her, as if Tony didn't even exist.

Tony's teeth locked. Definitely annoying. 

On the second floor, Pepper stopped in front of the guest room, opening the door. “Here.” She stepped through, crossing to the middle of the room before she stopped. “I put him to bed myself last night,” she said. “At around nine pm. Jarvis got up at five this morning, and noticed the door was open. He came in to check on DJ and found the room empty.” She took a deep breath. “We've been looking since then, and haven't managed to locate him.”

Rogers walked the perimeter of the room, checking the windows and ducking to look under the desk, under the vanity table. Tony, leaning against the wall next to the door, gave Pepper a curious look. She shrugged. “Officer Rogers?” she asked, as he crouched down, looking under the bed.

He stood up and turned to face them. “You put him in here?”

Tony looked at the room. It was large and airy, with big windows that looked out into the gardens below, the panes of glass sheltered by the heavy limbs of the oldest oak tree on the grounds. The huge, four poster bed was covered in what seemed like a mile of snowy white linens, and the beautiful, ornate furniture matched the hand painted wallpaper perfectly.

“Yes?” he said, because Rogers seemed to be waiting for a response. Rogers stared at him, his face incredulous. Tony huffed out a breath. “Do you have a problem with the room?” he asked, maintaining a polite tone with a force of will. “It's the best guest room we have.”

“And it's bigger than my entire apartment,” Rogers said. He opened the closet door, stepping inside. “Actually, this closet might be bigger than my entire apartment.”

Tony struggled against a smile. “You should see the bathroom.”

Rogers emerged, DJ's small satchel in his hand. “Don't need to,” he said. “His things are still here, so he didn't leave.”

“Of course he didn't leave,” Tony said, and Rogers gave him a look. “The doors are locked at night.”

“Right, that's... That's not going to slow him down,” Rogers said. Tony stared at him, and for the first time, Rogers smiled, just a little, that wide, beautiful mouth curling up. “But he wouldn't leave without his things, so he's still here, somewhere.”

“We've checked the other bedrooms,” Pepper said. “We keep most of them locked, but we've checked them all. We thought he might've gone down to the library, or the billiard room-”

“Or the garage,” Tony said. “But Rhodey and Happy checked every one of the cars. And there's no way he got past the locks on the workshop.”

“Jarvis and I showed him the house yesterday,” Pepper said. “But he's-” She took a deep breath. “He's just gone.”

Rogers nodded. “The bedding's disordered. Is there a blanket missing? A pillow?”

Pepper blinked at him. “I wouldn't- I don't know. Mrs. Parker would know, or maybe Natasha, she probably made it up. I'll go get her.”

“You don't have to-” Rogers started, but Pepper was already gone, at something just under a run. “Miss Potts!”

“Let her go,” Tony said. “She likes to feel like she's doing something useful.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “What's wrong with the room?”

Rogers' head came up. “Mr. Stark?”

Tony waved him off. “I made a mistake,” he said. “And I don't get how, but it's clear I did, but-”

Rogers shook his head. “You didn't pick this room,” he said, and it was disparaging. “You didn't-”

“My house, my people, my mistake,” Tony said, cutting him off with ruthless efficiency. “What's wrong with the room?”

Rogers stared at him, his face unreadable. But he studied Tony, as if he was just as baffled by Tony as Tony was by him. Finally, he said, “There's two things the poor don't get to have, Mr. Stark. Silence and solitude.”

Tony frowned. “What-”

Rogers shook his head. “He's been in the city his whole life, in the most crowded, dirtiest depths of the city. He sleeps in a room with ten, twelve other boys. There's always someone snoring, or someone talking, or someone crying or even just breathing. The streets are never quiet, never dark, no matter what the hour.

“So this?” Rogers waved a hand at the room. “This is as foreign to him as if he'd ended up in China.” His hand fell back to his side. “He must've been.... Scared.”

The last word was soft, sad. There was no accusation to it, no anger, but still, it hit Tony like a physical punch, his chest aching. Rogers stared at him, his blue eyes guileless. “He's never been alone,” he said. “And...”

“And now he was,” Tony finished from behind him.

“Where would he go?” Jarvis' voice made Tony jolt, his heart in his throat. Surprised, he looked over his shoulder to find Jarvis standing in the doorway, his hands folded behind his back. Tony hadn't even heard him approach.

Rogers squeezed his eyes shut. “I think there's a pillow and blanket missing from the bed,” he said. “But his things are still here. He wasn't trying to leave, he was trying to find someplace to hide.” He looked at the window, his profile lit with sunshine. “It was cold last night. I doubt he left the house.”

He looked back, meeting Tony's gaze squarely. “He'll find somewhere small. An alcove, a windowsill. He likes places where he can tuck himself up. That's why I checked the closet, I thought he might be in there, before-”

“Before you realized how big it was,” Tony finished.

“Yes. But still, he could've climbed up onto a shelf, or under one.” Rogers' fingers drummed against his the brim of his cap. “He's going to find somewhere safe, somewhere warm, somewhere with noise, with-” His voice trailed away, and he shook his head. “Somewhere-”

“The fountain,” Jarvis burst out, and spun on one heel, disappearing down the hallway in the blink of an eye.

“The... Fountain?” Rogers repeated.

Tony's head fell back. “The fountain. Of course, the fountain.”

“Can we stop saying-”

“There's a small fountain under the stairs,” Tony said, striding out of the room. Rogers was right behind him. Tony glanced at him. “The main staircase, the big one in the grand hall. There's a little fountain installed in the space underneath it. You can't see it from the main part of the room, but there's-”

“There's a fountain under the stairs,” Rogers said, his voice flat.

Tony wondered how he managed to pack so much judgment into so few words. “I didn't design the house,” he said, the words tart. “And no one said my father had good taste.” He headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Rogers kept up with him, his long legs eating up the distance. “He made it for my mother, and it was her favorite spot in the house.”

Which is why he kept it up, despite its horrible design. He hated the fountain, all those finicky little pipes and delicate findings, all the pieces that had to be cleaned and maintained, and replaced with alarming frequency. But when he turned it on, watching the marble basin fill with water, he could almost hear his mother's voice, the soft, sweet sound of her Italian lullabies and the even sweeter sound of her laughter. So he fixed it, every time it failed, every time it clogged, every time it overflowed.

Because, as Pepper liked to remind him, he was far more sentimental than he'd like to admit.

His feet hit the polished marble of the great hall, and he caught the end of the banister with one hand, using it to swing himself around. He nearly ran face first into Jarvis, who was just inside the alcove, slumped forward, his face covered with one shaking hand.

The fountain was running, as well as it ever had, water spilling from the mouths of the ornate carvings of the fish into the shell-shaped basin below. The water burbled, soft and gentle, swirling against the marble, catching the rays of the early morning sunshine. In front of the fountain, sheltered from the light and the noise of the great hall, there was a large, plush red velvet loveseat, piled high with pillows, that still smelled, ever so faintly of his mother's magnolia perfume.

Curled against one arm of the loveseat, DJ was still fast asleep, his blanket trailing down to the floor.

Tony was surprised to find his heart was pounding. “How did he possibly sleep through all of us running through the grand hall?”

“Spoken like a man who's never slept through the night in a tenement,” Rogers said, his voice coming from so close behind him that Tony's heart rate went right through the roof again.

“Slept through a few things in my life, but you're right,” Tony said, turning to face Rogers, who was so close that he could see the smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of his nose. Tony smiled at him. “That's not one of them.”

DJ rolled over, making a displeased sound under his breath, and Jarvis drew himself up, wrapping his dignity around him like another layer of clothing. “This is not a place for sleeping,” he said, his voice stern, and DJ opened one eye, peering up at Jarvis. Jarvis gave him a stern look. “Up we go, young man.”

“Here, I've got him,” Rogers said, stepping around Tony. He crossed to the loveseat, and leaned over to scoop the boy up against his chest. DJ settled into his arms, letting out a massive yawn before he buried his face in Rogers' shoulder. “Brat,” Rogers said, but the look on his face was soft and affectionate, so full of warmth that Tony's stomach rolled over.

“Thank you,” Jarvis said. “If you could, sir, bring him upstairs, and I'll draw him a bath.”

“Didja hear that?” Rogers asked DJ, who threw an arm over his shoulder. “You get a bath!”

“Noooooooo,” DJ mumbled, and Tony started to laugh.

“Sorry, but those are the rules,” he said, as Jarvis collected the pillow and blanket.

Together, they emerged from the space below the stairs, Rogers leading the way with DJ cradled in his arms. Pepper was coming down the stairs, and she stopped dead, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, thank God,” she said. 

“I think we owe Officer Rogers more of a thank you than the Almighty,” Tony said. “Where's Natasha?”

“She'll be up in a moment, she was helping the Chef check the greenhouse,” Pepper said. Together, they watched Jarvis and Rogers head up the stairs, both of them bent protectively over DJ. Tony exhaled, and Pepper gave him a look out of the corner of her eyes. “Don't.”

Tony blinked at her. “Don't?” he repeated.

She held up a finger. “Don't.”

“Right. Don't... What?”

“Don't look at the fine officer of the law that way,” Pepper said, her voice pitched low.

“Excuse me?” Tony gestured up towards the second floor landing, where Rogers had just disappeared. “I wasn't-”

“You absolutely were, and don't,” Pepper told him.

“I'm not going to hit on a police officer,” Tony said, his eyes rolling up. “That's trouble not even I need. And besides, the man hates me.”

“And he's just your type,” Pepper said.

“My-” Tony's mouth dropped open. “Are you- I don't have a type.” He spotted Rhodey heading in their direction, and turned his attention to him. “Rhodey. Do I have a type?”

“Yes,” Rhodey said, his voice flat. While Tony was still staggering under of the weight of that betrayal, he turned his attention to Pepper. “I'm guessing that if we're discussing Tony's love life, that means we found him?”

“We found him,” Pepper said, stepping into his arms. Rhodey hugged her tight, his lips gentle on the crown of her head. “Thank God. We found him.”

“I do not have a type,” Tony said, his hands braced on his hips. “What's my type?”

“Gorgeous, intelligent, and utterly unimpressed by you,” Rhodey said, his eyes closed, his arms still tight around Pepper.

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. “That's not a 'type,'” he said, trying to sound stern. “That's having sense.”

Pepper opened one eye, glaring out at Tony from the shelter of Rhodey's chest. “Show some sense, and do not make eyes at the cop,” she said.

“Oh, God,” Rhodey said, his head falling back.

“I wasn't-”

“He absolutely was,” Pepper said to Rhodey, her chin braced on his breastbone. “He was-” She made her eyes huge, fluttering her eyelashes. “He did the thing.”

“Don't,” Rhodey said to Tony.

“You're both insane,” Tony said, pointing at them. “I'm going to go-” He didn't know how to finish that sentence. He gave a firm nod. “Right. Going to go do that. That thing.”

“Tony-” Pepper said, her voice dire, and Tony headed for the library, because he absolutely did not have a type.

And if he did, Officer Rogers absolutely wasn't it.

At all.

*

“Thank you.” 

Startled, Steve looked up to find Miss Potts and a lovely, statuesque redheaded woman waiting for him at the base of the stairs. “It was nothing, ma'am,” he said. He shifted his weight, his cap clasped in front of him in both hands. “I'm glad we found him.”

Her smile was like a burst of springtime sunshine, destined to melt even the iciest heart. “So am I,” she said. “But I'm sorry it took us dragging you out of your bed.”

“I was going to be up soon anyway,” Steve said. “So-”

“Stay and have some breakfast,” Pepper said, “and then Happy can drive you back.”

Steve shook his head "I'm fine, ma'am."

"We're all fine," Miss Potts said, waving an airy hand through the air. “Which doesn't mean that we wouldn't all benefit from an actual meal.” She paused, a slight smile twitching the corners of her lips. “Mr. Stark has the finest of French chefs, doesn't he, Natasha?”

The redhead in the neat black maid's outfit seemed to consider that. “That is what Mr. Stark says,” she said, her eyebrows arching. “And Mr. Stark is never wrong.”

“That is also something Mr. Stark says,” Miss Potts said.

Steve's eyes slid from one to the other, not really sure if he should be saying something. “I should just-”

“Breakfast,” Miss Potts said, her voice firm. “Natasha, would you mind making certain that Officer Rogers doesn't escape before he's had something to eat?”

“Of course.” She looked at Steve, a faint, amused smile curling her lips. “If you'll just follow me, Officer, I'll show you the way to the dining room.”

Steve fell into step behind her. “If you don't mind, Miss, I'm really not comfortable with-” His voice dropped. “I'm not a guest.”

She considered him out of the corner of her eye. “Then the kitchen,” she said, her voice brisk. “With the rest of the help.”

"Thank you, Miss..." His voice trailed off, and she gave him an amused look. 

"Just Natasha is fine," she said with a faint smile. “Come along. The stairs to the kitchen are this way.”

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Just being here made him uncomfortable. Everywhere he looked, it was polished marble and gilt, gleaming gold paint and heavy red brocade. Carvings of ancient patterns and smiling cherubs peeked out from every corner, delicate metalwork and incredibly intricate mosiacs of glass and stone covering surfaces from the ceiling to the floor. 

There was a damn fountain under the damn stairs. He didn't even know how to process something like that.

But he was hungry. He was always hungry. He swallowed his pride, and followed her down the winding staircase to the kitchens.

The kitchen was bigger than he expected, a big, open space lit by massive windows along two of the walls, with neat rows of cabinets beneath them providing storage. Huge stoves covered another wall, modern looking ranges of polished metal and white enamel. Down the center of the room, there was a massive island, the stone top polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the rows of copper pots hanging from the ceiling above it. There were a few stools positioned at the counter, stacks of bowls arranged in early reach.

Natasha crossed the white tile floor, her footsteps echoing in the empty space. “Take a seat,” she said, gesturing towards the counter. Without waiting to see if Steve followed her instruction, she headed to a door on the far wall, throwing it open to reveal a path down to the gardens behind the house. She leaned out, tucking two fingers into her mouth and letting out a piercing whistle.

She turned around fast enough to catch the look of shock on Steve's face, and a smile broke over her face. “Calling in the troops,” she said, crossing to the pantry door. A moment later she emerged, a bowl of eggs braced on one hip and a basket of potatoes in her other hand.

The back door opened, and a man leaned in. “We find him, then?”

Natasha set the food on the island next to Steve. “We found him,” she said. “Was asleep under the stairs.”

“Small mercies. I was expecting to find him climbing the shelves in the butler's pantry.” The man was lanky and loose limbed, with broad shoulders and well muscled arms revealed by his rolled up sleeves. His wheat blonde hair was cut short on the sides, and longer on top. He peered at Steve with one blurry eye. "Who's this?" he asked, his voice a slow, easy drawl.

Steve straightened up, his cap tucked neatly under his arm. The question hadn't been addressed to him, but he answered it anyway. "Officer Steve Rogers," he said, his voice crisp. "NYPD.”

Natasha emerged from the door next to the pantry, a large, golden brown loaf of bread in one hand and a covered basket in the other, her black skirts rustling around her slim legs. "Miss Potts thought he might have some insights into our young guest's movements," she said. Her eyes slipped towards Steve, the green of her irises glinting beneath the sweep of her lashes. "He's been very useful. So he is to be fed." There was a faint accent to the words that Steve couldn't quite identify, not French or German, or anything else he'd encountered in Europe. But familiar, none the less.

The man rubbed the back of his neck, leaning back against the stove. "That so?" he asked. Natasha nodded as she picked up the kettle, crossing to the massive sink. His hand flopped back to his side. "Right then. I'm Clint. I do the cooking around here, or most of it, anyway."

Steve blinked at him. "You're the chef?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah."

Steve paused. "The... French chef?"

Clint stared at him, his face unreadable. "Oui," he said at last, and Natasha hid a smile behind one slim hand. She kicked Clint in the ankle as she passed behind him.

"Behave," she said, her head tipped in his direction, her tone almost flirtatious.

"Ain't happened before, ain't likely to start now," Clint said, grinning back.

"Right," Steve said, sinking down at the long, polished stone counter. He set his cap down next to him on the stool to his right. "French. Got it." He found himself smiling at nothing in particular. "Of course Mr. Stark has a French chef."

"What else would he have? Everyone knows the French are the best, when it comes to food, and Mr. Stark always makes sure to have the best," Natasha said. There seemed to be a joke there, that Steve didn't understand, but he smiled anyway. She turned off the sink and lifted the kettle full of water out of the gleaming sink. She ducked around Clint to set it on the stove. "What do you want for breakfast?"

Steve shook his head. "Whatever you're making, I'll eat.” It wasn't much of an exaggeration. “What do you have?”

One of Clint's shoulders rose in a slight shrug. "There's fresh fruit, apples and pears and plums, and probably some berries in the ice box, oatmeal's in the pot on the stove. Bread's baked fresh daily, and we've got eggs, bacon, sausage, cheese. Mrs. Parker makes the pastry, so we've got pie and sweet buns, tarts and biscuits. Coffee and tea, milk and juice.” He crossed his arms over his chest. "So. What's your pleasure?”

Steve looked at Natasha, not sure what to say. “Maybe make him some fried eggs and bacon?” she said to Clint. She gave Steve a once over, her eyes sliding over him. “And some potatoes?”

Steve's stomach rumbled, and he nodded. “Any of that,” he said. “And a cup of coffee, if I could.”

“Right,” Clint said. He dusted his hands on his thighs and pushed himself upright, heading for the icebox. “Tell you what, Rogers, I'm just going to start cooking, and you can eat what you want.”

“Don't worry,” Natasha said to Steve, as Clint returned to the stove with what looked like a few pounds of bacon. “Enough hungry mouths to feed, it'll all get eaten.” 

Clint snagged a skillet from the rack, setting it on the stove, and laying the bacon in it, one strip after another. As it started to cook, he held up a hand. Natasha tossed in egg at him, and he plucked it out of the air without even looking in her direction. Natasha flicked another egg in his direction, and he caught it with his hand behind his back. A third egg arced high over their heads, dropping into Clint's waiting palm. As Steve watched, confusion sweeping over him, Clint started juggling them.

“Want to start the potatoes?” he asked, even as Natasha tossed a fourth egg at him. He integrated it into the pattern without a blink.

“I can do that.” A fifth egg joined the other four, and Natasha glanced at Steve. “Can you cut a few slices from that loaf of bread so we can start some toast?” she asked, her head bobbing towards it. “There's a knife block on the cabinet, and you look like a man who can handle a blade.”

Steve pushed himself to his feet, his eyes still locked on the eggs dancing between Clint's hands. “Sure, I can do that. Or, if you, prefer, I've peeled potatoes by the bushel.”

One of her eyebrows arched. “You did kitchen work?”

Steve smiled back. “I was in the army,” he said, choosing a paring knife from the block. “And wasn't always known for following orders, so...” One shoulder rose in a shrug. “Spent a lot of time peeling potatoes.”

“Well, an army does march on its stomach,” she said, pushing the basket of potatoes across the counter to his seat. “Put the peels in a pile on the cutting board, Bruce'll want them for the garden.” She headed back into the pantry, returning with a bin of flour and another in sugar, a tin of baking power balanced on top of the pile. She set them down beside a mixing bowl and reached for a measuring cup. 

Steve took a seat, reaching for a potato from the top of the pile. "How'd you end up working here?" he asked, flicking a strip of peel away from the blade of his knife.

"Well," Clint said, drawing the word out into an entire unspoken sentance, "I happened to be around when Mr. Stark needed a cook."

Natasha measured several cups of flour into a mixing bowl, her movements quick and efficient. "We tried to rob the place," she said, with a wry smile. "It didn't go so well."

Steve stared at her, his fingers going still on the potato. "Excuse me?"

"In my defense, it was her idea," Clint said, catching the eggs, one after another, and setting them aside. He shifted the rashers of bacon on the pan and cracked the first egg into the sizzling grease.

"In my defense, I assumed I was going to leave him to take the fall for it," Natasha said. She cracked eggs into the bowl, one after another, separating the shells with deft, easy movements. "I'm still quite disappointed that he managed to take me down with him."

Steve's eyes slid from one to the other, trying to make sense of either of them. “You... Tried to-”

The back door opened, and a brown haired teenager, scrawny and awkward, came stumbling in, swaying under the weight of a large wicker basket that he held braced on his shoulder. “Did we find him?” the boy asked, his cheeks pink and his hair sticking up in all directions. The basket shifted, and he shuffled forward, trying to rebalance it before he lost his grip. He blinked at Steve, and tried to smooth his hair down with his free hand. “Hello, sir.”

“Yes, we found him, and this is Officer Rogers,” Natasha said, her head bent over her bowl. Her spoon cut through the batter, whipping it into smooth, creamy waves. “Officer Rogers, this is Peter. His aunt is the housekeeper here, and Peter helps in the gardens and grounds.”

“Man of all work,” Peter said, with a wide, proud grin. He set the basket down, revealing the piles of multicolored apples and pears inside. “Bruce said he'll be in when he's finished with the weeding.”

Natasha glanced in his direction, her spoon never slowing. “This is almost enough to replace the pies you ate yesterday,” she said, considering the fruit.

Peter gave her a stricken look. “I ate half a pie. One, at most, not even a full one.”

“It was an entire pie,” Clint said. The eggs were crackling in the pan, and he gave it a shake, the flames licking at the sides of the skillet. “You've got an empty leg, kid.” 

“I still think you ate part of it and blamed it on me,” Peter groused.

“Now, would I do something like that?” Clint asked, with a wide grin.

“Yes,” Natasha and Peter said as one. 

“My mama used to say, ain't a good idea to mess with anyone who handles your food,” Clint said. He reached for a platter. “Cut some slices of bread, Peter, you can almost be trusted with toast.”

“Toast duty, my favorite duty,” Peter said, and it sounded like he actually meant it.

The back door opened again, and a man with salt and pepper hair and small, round glasses leaned in. “We found him?” he asked. There was an anxious note to his voice, and his eyes met Steve's for only a moment before they jerked away. His shoulders were hunched beneath his well worn brown shirt, and his hands were stained with the same dirt that caked his boots and the ragged hems of his pants.

“We've got him,” Natasha told him. “Where's Bobbi?”

“Down in the laundry yard,” he said, his voice rising on the last word, making it sound like a question. “Checking on the-” His eyes flicked towards Steve, and away again. “Taking in the work,” he finished. Steve kept his head down, knowing a lie when he heard one, and a bad liar was even easier to pick out.

“Officer Rogers, this is Bruce,” Natasha said, tapping her spoon against the rim of the bowl. “Bruce, this is Officer Rogers.”

“Good morning,” Steve said, setting another potato on the pile. “How many more of these do you-”

“That's a good start,” Natasha said, her voice brisk. “If you can cut them?”

"Yes, ma'am," Steve said, as Natasha set a pot of water next to him.

"Just give them a rough dice and set them in here to soak, please, and Clint'll set a pan up to fry them."

“I can help,” Bruce offered.

“Wash up first,” Clint told him, and Bruce considered his hands. 

“Right,” he said. “I'll just-” He looked at Clint. “Is there coffee?”

“If there wasn't coffee, I wouldn't have a job,” Clint said, making a shooing motion at Bruce with his apron. Bruce headed for the sink, and Clint plated up an egg and a thick slab of bacon. “Don't you fill my sink with that mud, Banner.”

“Right.” Bruce adjusted his glasses, leaving a smudge of dirt on one lens. He didn't seem to notice. “I'll just-” He gestured behind him. “Right.” Without finishing anything close to a sentence, he headed for what Steve assumed was the servant's stairs.

“Don't forget to come back down when you're done,” Clint said. He tapped his spatula on the rim of the plate. “Peter! Come eat, you've got school.”

Peter put another few slices of toast on the platter, feeding a few more slices of bread into the oven. “I can-”

“Sit down,” Natasha said, her voice bored, and he scrambled over to the counter, his legs flailing through the air as he landed on one of the stools. Clint slid the plate in front of him, and Natasha added a few hefty slices of toast. “Officer Rogers, would you like some toast?”

“I can wait-” he started, just before Clint dropped a plate in front of him, brimming with eggs and crispy, sizzling bacon.

"Eat," he said, collecting the potatoes, as the back door opened again. 

It was the woman he'd seen when he'd first come in, tall and lean, clad in black pants and a white shirt, left open at her throat. She wore a brown vest over the shirt, hanging open now, her crisp shirtsleeves rolled up to her elbows. She stripped off her heavy gardening gloves as she walked in. “Where's Bruce?”

"Washing his hands," Peter said, around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. 

Natasha gave him a look, and he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth, his eyebrows bouncing up. "Officer Rogers, Bobbi Morse. Bobbi, Officer Rogers."

Bobbi paused, her gloves gripped in one hand. "Think I saw you come in," she said with a smile, bracing her fists on her hips. "How long ago did Bruce leave to wash his hands?"

"I'm sure he won't get distracted," Natasha said. “Clint, is the pan ready?”

“As ready as it's going to get,” he said, holding his hand out for the bowl. “Hand it over.”

"Oh, you're sure of that?" Bobbi grinned at her. "Save me some pancakes, I'll go pry him loose from his beakers.” She snagged a piece of toast from the platter on her way to the stairs, her hips swaying with every step. “Morning, Mr. Stark.”

“If I don't get a cup of coffee in the next thirty seconds, everyone in this room is fired,” Stark said, his voice dire. 

Steve barely had time to register the new arrivals before DJ came scrambling up to the stool next to his, hopping up to rest his arms on the countertop. Steve moved his hat out of the way, and DJ plopped down on the stool, rocking it forward so he could lean his elbows on the well worn stone. “Good morning,” Steve said, dropping his hat onto DJ's still-damp hair with a smile.

DJ's eyes disappeared beneath the brim of the hat, but his grin was still visible beneath it. “Morning,” he replied, a giggle running through the word.

"Shouldn't you be upstairs, sir?" Natasha asked, pouring the coffee with a neat twist of her wrist. She held the cup out to him. "In the dining room?"

Stark took it with a sound of relief. "Kid doesn't like the dining room," he mumbled into the cup. His eyes fluttered shut. "We've decided to slum it today."

Steve tensed, but Natasha just shook her head, a fond smile on her face. "Ah, I see. It's all your fault, then," she said to DJ, who grinned at her around a piece of toast he'd snuck off of Steve's plate. "Would you like some milk with your breakfast? Or some juice?"

He nodded, and she reached for the milk jug. Clint ducked around her, setting a plate of toast and eggs in front of Stark. He raised his eyebrow, and said something. Steve blinked at him as the run of syllables went in all directions, a pure rush of gibberish. Stark nodded, and said something back.

Steve didn't understand a word of it, but at least it was actually French.

Natasha refilled Stark's coffee. "We have potatoes," she said to Stark. "Thanks to Officer Rogers. And I'm sure the chef would be pleased to poach you an egg."

Clint scowled at her, another sing-song burst of nonsense spilling out of him. Natasha's head swung in his direction, as slow and precise as a snake identifying its next meal. "I'm sure," she said, her voice silken and dangerous, "that the chef would be pleased to poach you an egg." 

Stark watched this interplay, his jaw braced on one hand, sipping his coffee. 

Clint muttered something that was still not French, but was definitely a swear. Still, he turned back to the stove, reaching for a pot. Natasha rolled her eyes. Steve looked from her, to Clint, to Stark, who was still watching them, a puckish, warm smile on his face. Steve looked down at DJ, who had snuck all of his bacon off of his plate and into a napkin.

“Usually we let Mrs. Parker make the hot cakes,” Natasha said to DJ, “but I think she won't mind that I took over for her today. Would you like some?”

DJ nodded, but he also reached for Stark's plate, his fingers twitching a piece of bacon from it before anyone could say anything. But to Steve's surprise, Stark just smiled down at him, his jaw resting on one hand. “You can have your own plate,” he said, over the rim of his coffee cup. “Unless you just like sharing?”

DJ chewed on the bacon, silent, and Stark pushed his plate a little closer. “Use a fork for the eggs, okay?”

“Are you giving him your breakfast?” Natasha filled a serving bowl with the potatoes, fried crisp and dusted with salt and pepper. She set it on the counter, and Stark pushed it in front of Peter. “Miss Potts'll be upset if you don't eat something.”

“Who's going to tell her?” Stark said, his voice belligerent, and Clint, Natasha and Peter all raised their hands. After a moment, DJ raised his hand, too. Stark gave him a look. “Traitor,” he said, but he was smiling. “Fine.” He pushed his stool back from the counter. “Do we have any pie? Or did Peter eat it all again?”

Peter's silverware rattled against the counter. “It was HALF a pie!” he said, and he sounded so betrayed that Steve couldn't quite hold back a smile.

“We're going to come down here some morning and just-” Stark waved a hand through the air. “Find you passed out on the floor, surrounded by empty pie plates and covered with the remains of your crimes.”

Peter stared straight ahead, his mouth pursed up tight. “I was HUNGRY,” he said, with the sort of wounded dignity that only a teenager could manage. Steve hid his smile behind his coffee cup.

“And when his aunt finds out you're teasing him again, none of us will get any pie,” Natasha said, whisking Stark's empty cup from his hand. “Yes. There's an apple pie and a banana cream pie in the pie cabinet.”

“Ooh, banana.” Stark tucked his hands in his back pockets. “I want that back, just so you know. Don't get too attached to it. I'm expecting it to be waiting for me, with more coffee in it, when I get back.”

Natasha's lips twitched. “Of course, sir.” She ducked around Clint, who slid a platter of golden brown pancakes onto the counter before turning back to the stove. “Let's get you a plate,” she said to DJ, who'd managed to weasel another piece of bacon and some potatoes from Peter. “Fruit jam or butter?”

DJ considered that. “Both,” he said, very firmly, and Steve choked on a laugh.

“Of course, sir,” Natasha said, setting a plate of pancakes in front of DJ. “Let me get you the jam pot.”

"Officer Rogers."

Steve turned on his stool to find Mr. Jarvis standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Mr. Jarvis?"

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just Jarvis will do, please, sir. I don't mean to interrupt your meal, but I require your assistance, if you don't mind."

Steve nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Of course." He looked down at DJ, who was cutting his pancakes into bite sized pieces. “You okay there?” he asked, taking his cap back and trying to smooth DJ's hair down. It was a losing battle.

DJ gave a firm nod, and Peter gave Steve a bright smile. “I'll help him, if he needs it,” he offered.

Steve nodded. “Thank you.”

Stark emerged from the pastry closet, a whole pie balanced on each hand. He said something in French, and Steve wondered why the hell his voice seemed to get deeper and huskier when he did that. Stark's eye caught Steve's, and he smiled, his lips curling around a word that sounded somehow obscene.

Steve turned around before anyone could see his face flush.

But then Clint replied, with as much nonsense as he had before, and Steve wondered what the hell was happening here.

Jarvis lead him out of the kitchen and up the stairs towards the grand hall. Once they were out of earshot, Steve glanced back at the kitchen door. "May I ask you a question?"

Jarvis nodded, an inquisitive look on his face. "Of course, sir."

"Just Steve is fine, Jarvis." Steve pointed back towards the kitchen. "That wasn't French."

Jarvis's eyebrows arched. "Sir?"

"What Clint was speaking. That-" Steve shook his head. "That wasn't French."

"And that is not a question," Jarvis said, his face a polite mask. But there was something like laughter in the words, a note of unholy glee that Steve didn't really understand.

"Mr. Stark was speaking French."

"Ah, do you-"

"I know enough to know when someone's speaking French and when someone's making up nonsense," Steve said, his voice flat. They crossed the hall to the main staircase, heading up to the second floor. "So Mr. Stark does speak French, and Clint doesn't?"

"Oh, my, no," Jarvis said, stepping briskly onto the staircase. "A household like this should absolutely have a French chef. Thus-" He paused, one hand on the banister, his body turned back towards Steve. "We do."

Steve stared up at him. "You have a French chef."

"Yes."

"Who doesn't speak French."

"I wouldn't know, sir. I certainly don't speak French." With that, Jarvis continued up the stairs. 

Steve stood there, something like a headache developing behind his temples. "This place is a lunatic asylum," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, no, sir," Jarvis said, his voice echoing down the stairs to Steve. "I quite take offense to that." At the top of the stairs, he stopped, his hand resting easily on the railing. "After all, everyone here is free to leave at any time." And with the perfect beat timing of a Vaudevillian who'd done his routine a million times before, he gestured to a door at the end of the hallway. "Right this way."

Left with few options, other than to collect DJ and make a break for it, Steve followed him.

Jarvis pushed the door open, waving Steve in. "Based on what you said, I thought perhaps this room might be a better match for our young guest."

Startled, Steve stopped in his tracks. Because it was.

It was a smaller bedroom, but more then the physical size, it was less imposing. It was tucked in a corner of the floor, with large windows on two walls flooding the space with light. Someone, Jarvis probably, had opened them, and now the breeze stirred the lacy, cream colored curtains. Instead of the heavy, dark wallpaper he'd seen elsewhere, the walls here were painted a pale green, with delicate, twining vines running around the top near the ceiling. 

There was big, overstuffed arm chair tucked in the corner, and a small, almost child sized desk and chair on the opposite wall. A large round rug covered most of the wooden floor. The bed was simple, the headboard painted white with gold accents. Bookcases were set on either side of the bed, tall affairs that were painted a matching white. They were filled with books, slim story books and well worn leather bound collections and on the lowest shelves, massive reference books about plants and ships, history and trains, animals and geography.

And scattered between the books were toys. Big metal tops, painted in bright colors. Boxes of wooden blocks. Tin soldiers, arranged in neat lines, complete with figures on horseback and tiny wheeled canons. Toy cars and trains, their metallic wheels gleaming even under a layer of dust. Wooden boats with ornate cloth sails and string rigging. A huge glass jar filled with marbles in a hundred different colors and patterns.

Best of all, between the bookcases was a huge, hinged castle, propped open now to show the rooms inside. Each room was filled with small toys, carved figures of a king and queen, a little prince, servants and knights and guards. There were horses and sheep, toy cows and dogs, tiny cats and ducks and chickens.

“It was Mr. Stark's room, when he was much younger,” Jarvis said. He reached out, his gloved fingers flicking a cobweb away from the turrets of the castle. His nose wrinkled. “It's been unoccupied for a long time, but-” He smiled at Steve. “It'll be a quick day's work to get it ready for a new occupant.”

Steve picked up a toy car. “He might break something.”

Jarvis let out a little chuckle. “Mr. Stark was quite adept at making sure his things were very durable,” he said. From some interior pocket, he'd pulled a large white handkerchief and was wiping down the bedside table, whisking dusk away from the ornate glass lamp. “And there is nothing he can break that can't be easily replaced.”

The wheels rolled against Steve's palm, the axle squeaking from disuse. “But if these are heirlooms,” he said, his voice quiet, “they should be put aside for Mr. Stark's children.”

He looked up to find Jarvis watching him, a faint, unreadable smile on his face. “They are toys,” Jarvis said, his voice soft and gentle. “And ought to be played with, not left to rot for an owner that may never exist, Officer Rogers.” His eyes fell away and he flicked the handkerchief, releasing a burst of dust to float through the sunlit air. “All it needs is a bit of soap and water and a good, quick scrub.”

“We shouldn't have left it so long as is.” The door was pushed open, and a shot, thin woman in a black dress and white apron came bustling in, her arms overloaded with packages. Without even thinking, Steve moved, crossing over to take the boxes from her. She smiled at him, her dark eyes bright behind a tiny pair of wire rimmed glasses. “Oh, aren't you a sweet boy?” she said, as Steve relieved her of her burden.

“Where do you want them, ma'am?” Steve asked.

“On the bed is fine, thank you,” she said, dusting off her hands on her crisp apron. “We'll want it all cleaned and dusted before we open even a single box.” Her head tipped towards Jarvis, her mouth forming a flat line. “A quick day's work, he says.”

“Indeed,” Jarvis said, utterly unruffled. “Officer Rogers, this is Mrs. Parker, the housekeeper. Mrs. Parker, Officer Rogers.”

“Ah, the one who brought DJ to us,” Mrs. Parker said, with a bright smile. She was perhaps younger than her white hair would indicate, but every time she smiled, lines crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I've heard quite a lot about you.”

He smiled back. “I hear good things about your pies. And your pancakes,” he said, and to his surprise, she reached up, smoothing his hair down.

“You've a bit of a cowlick,” she said, and Steve reached up, trying to flatten it down. She laughed. “Don't you worry, Officer, it's quite charming on you.” She looked at Jarvis, the two of them sharing a silent communication. “Let's get you something to eat.”

“I've already-” Steve started, but Mrs. Parker took his elbow with a firm grip.

“Let's get you some wheat cakes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little canon appropriate violence in this one. Based on the strangest scene in the Annie movie.
> 
> And it's Annie. So that's saying something.

The photographer showed up promptly at nine, escorted be a large, bombastic bald man. By that time, DJ had been fed, dressed, and fussed over, Mrs. Parker kneeling down in front of him to smooth his hair. She whispered to him, her words inaudible to the rest of the room, but he giggled, his cheeks pink.

Steve, leaning against the wall on the far side of the hall, tried to ignore the way his chest ached when she leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, and smoothing his hair down to cover it. DJ's eyes flicked around the room, stopping when he spotted Steve. Steve smiled at him, and DJ smiled back.

“Ready?” Stark said, straightening his own jacket with a flick of his fingers. He held out a hand. “Want to come stand with me?”

DJ gave the photographer a suspicious look. “No,” he said, and Steve flinched.

But Stark just grinned, his face alight with amusement. “Want me to come over there?” he offered. He leaned against the banister of the main staircase, his posture easy and relaxed.

DJ slipped behind Mrs. Parker, who covered her mouth with a hand to hide her smile. “You don't have to have your picture taken if you don't want to, dear,” she said. “But I'd love to have a picture of you to put up in my parlor.”

The photographer grinned around the matchstick in his mouth. “Don't ya want to be in the papers, kid?” He leaned an arm over his camera and tripod. “C'mon. Everyone wants to be in the papers.”

DJ shook his head, and the bald man huffed out an exasperated breath. “Just... Pick him up,” he said to Stark, who gave him a look.

“Yes, because a screaming child is sure to do wonders for my public image,” he drawled. Instead, he lowered himself down to sit on the bottom of the staircase, long legs thrown out in front of him on the polished marble floor. “Want to go look at the cars again?” he offered DJ, his hands braced on either side of his hips. DJ shifted position, but didn't leave Mrs. Parker's side. Stark smiled. “Or...”

He leaned forward. “Did you know,” he said, his voice taking on a secretive tone, “that down in the basement, below all the other parts of the house, there's a workshop. A secret workshop. It's where I keep all of my prototypes. All the machines I'm working on. All the things I'm building.” 

His eyebrows arched. “And right now, I want to go down there, but I can't, because-” He gestured at the photographer. “I have to get my picture taken. If you can help me with that, maybe you could come down with me?”

DJ considered that. “Just one?”

Stark tapped a finger against his lips. “Might be more than one,” he admitted. “But if it's more than one, I'll let you destroy something.”

DJ's face lit up and Steve straightened up. “I don't think-”

Stark's eyes met his from across the room, and there was something like mischief in them, some spark of unholy glee, like he was doing this specifically to get under Steve's skin, and Steve felt his back teeth lock. “DJ.” DJ looked at him. “I'd like a picture, too.” He managed a smile. “I have to go back, I've got a shift today, but I wanted to see you get your picture taken.”

“Also destruction,” Stark said, and Steve's temper slipped.

“Mr. Stark, I don't think-”

“It's fine,” Stark said. “It's- I have a clock I have always despised. It's never run right, and more than that, it's...” His mouth went into a flat line. “It's ugly. It's just so ugly.” He arched an eyebrow at DJ. “Want to smash it?”

“Yes,” DJ said, his voice vibrating with the force of that one word.

“Wonderful, one picture and we can find you a hammer.”

“Now, Mr. Stark, you best not put ideas into this young rascal's head,” Mrs. Parker said, but she let go of DJ's hand, letting him cross the hall to Stark's side.

“We'll wait until they're not looking, and then we can smash it,” Stark said in a stage whisper.

“I think Mr. Rhodes will be joining you in the workshop today,” Mrs. Parker said. 

“He's not,” Stark told her.

“He might not have been before.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But he will be now.”

“The joke's on her,” Stark said to DJ. “Rhodey smashes things better than anyone.”

“Tony, can you please be serious for just-” the bald man started, and Stark waved a hand in his direction.

“Yes, yes, fine, Obie.” He rolled to his feet, and held out a hand to DJ. “Welcome to the Stark Mansion, young man,” he said, and DJ gave his hand a firm shake.

The flash bulb went off with a crack.

*

"You finished destroying that?"

DJ looked up, a wide smile on his face. He nodded, rocking forward to tuck a knee against his chest. The stool he was sitting on shifted, the legs rattling on the stone floor. 

Tony stared down at his plans, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to murder the idiot who'd made them with his mind.. "Good. Destruction is fun," he said. He dropped the plans to the workbench, huffing out a breath. "Let's find you something else that I won't miss because-"

He stopped, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he set it back down on the bench. "Now, that's some very organized destruction," he said. He leaned forward, considering the rows and rows of disassembled parts. DJ had laid out the pieces in neat, symmetrical rows, sorted by size and type, the gears wiped clean and the broken parts isolated far away from the others, like they were an infection that had to be quarantined. 

Tony picked up a spindle that had been set to the side, turning it over in his hand. It wasn't until he rolled the slim metal rod between his fingertips that he felt the flaw, the almost imperceptible bend halfway down the length. He set it back down, a little too close to the good parts, and DJ immediately collected it, putting it back with the rejects.

Tony found himself smiling. "Very, very organized chaos," he said, and DJ grinned up at him, his expression almost smug. Tony tossed a rag over his head, and DJ giggled. "Right. You-" He pointed a screwdriver in DJ's direction. "Are going to be a menace with a wrench."

He leaned back. "Hey, Rhodey, did you see-"

The words trailed away as he realized that the workshop was empty. He paused, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Something's missing here." DJ held up a piece of paper, never bothering to remove the cloth from his head. Tony reached out to take it from him. "Thank you. Very helpful. If you're interested in a position as my secretary, you should reconsider this, because it's a horrible idea."

DJ giggled, and Tony unfolded the note, trying to keep a straight face. 'Have to pick up the updated blueprints from corp. Will tell Jarvis to make sure you eat. It's sad that I have to have Jarvis handle that. Try to eat without being reminded.'

Tony frowned down at the note. "The writing looks like Rhodey's," he mused, turning it over to look at the back, "but this is clearly a man who doesn't care about his job or our long standing friendship." He looked back at DJ. "What time is it?"

DJ lifted the rag away from his face, blinking up at Tony, and then down at the remains of the clock spread out over the workbench in front of him. Tony followed his gaze. "Ah. Right," he said. "Less useful in its current state." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the edge of the workbench, and folding his hands in front of his mouth. "So. It appears that Rhodey has made the incredibly poor choice to leave you without proper adult supervision."

DJ considered that, his head tipping to the side. After a moment of weighty silence, he looked back at Tony. "Good."

Tony choked on a laugh. "Right. Right." He pointed the screwdriver at DJ again. "No."

"Yes," DJ said, right on beat, and Tony let his head fall into the palm of his hand.

"I cannot be responsible for you," he said, but the statement didn't conjure up the fear that it should've. “It's dangerous.”

DJ reached for a cutting blade, and Tony got there before he did. DJ frowned. “I'm fine.”

“Who cares about you?” Tony asked him with a smile. “It's dangerous for me, and that's the only thing that really matters.” He tossed Rhodey's note aside. “Well. Rhodes is replaceable. You are small, but I suspect you can be taught.”

DJ nodded, his hands braced on the bench.

Tony smiled. "Hand me the socket wrench," he said, holding out a hand. There was a moment of silence, and he glanced over. DJ was looking at him, his face twisted in confusion. "The socket wrench?" Tony repeated. "You know which one that is? It's-" he gestured at the tool box. "It's that one, next to the drill, it's-"

DJ's fingers plucked at the cuffs of his shirt, something like fear floating across his features, and Tony settled back. "Hey, it's okay," he said, and DJ's eyes snapped up to his, then back down. Tony's fingers rattled on the bench, his mind turning over the possibilities. He reached out, snagging a nut. "DJ." DJ glanced up, his eyes wary, and Tony held up the nut. "I need the tool for this," he said, and DJ's face relaxed in an instant.

He slid off his stool, darting over to the tool chest. An instant later, he turned around, the socket wrench held in one hand. Tony grinned at him. "Yes," he said, and DJ grinned back, his face going pink with something like pleasure, or maybe relief. Tony held out a hand, and DJ bounced across the floor to give it to him. Tony grabbed an old plan and flipped it over, spreading it blank side up over the workbench. He grabbed a pencil. "Socket wrench," he said, writing the words out in simple block printing, then tracing around the contours of the tool. DJ boosted himself up, peering over the edge of the bench, his dark eyes bright. 

Tony grabbed a piece of metal with a neat hole in the center. "What makes this?" he asked, tapping the hole, then holding it out to DJ. DJ's fingers traced the edges of the hole, pressing against the smooth bore in the metal, and then shot over to the toolbox, coming back with the hand drill. "Right," Tony said. "Drill." He printed the word as he said it, sweeping his work aside to make more space. "This is a drill." He tapped the word, and DJ stared at it, his brow furrowed.

"Drill," he repeated, turning the simple word over with his tongue.

"Right, you got it," Tony said, and DJ grinned up at him. He tipped out a drawer, grabbing for the next thing. Screws. Nails. Wood that had been rubbed smooth, metal that had been cut in intricate waves. DJ considered each one, like a puzzle piece, like a riddle, matching tools to their work, one after another, keeping Tony busy with words and shapes, his pencil darting over every square inch of the paper.

Finally, Tony braced both hands against the bench, staring at the array of tools, each one labeled, each one outlined. “You are one very smart little boy,” he said. He glanced at DJ. “Talking's... Not easy for you, is it?”

DJ's fingers plucked the cuff of his shirt. His mouth worked for a second “No,” he said at last. “Hard. It's hard. Sometimes...” His nose wrinkled. “Don't come out right.”

“Right.” Tony took a seat on a stool, his elbows braced on the workbench. “Well, I talk too much, but sometimes, they don't come out right for me, either.” He reached for his coffee cup. It was empty, and he frowned down at it. “Reading's easier?”

DJ nodded.

“Fine. We can work with that. Because now...” He swept the tools aside, pulling the sheet of paper free. “Now, we have a chart. So if you don't understand what I'm asking, I can show you.” He smiled at DJ. “Right?”

Another nod. And then, carefully, “Right.”

Tony's eyes slid in DJ's direction. “I'll do the talking, and slip you secret notes when I need you to sabotage my many enemies.” He arched an eyebrow. “Do we have a deal?”

DJ blinked at him, slow and deliberate. "Socket wrench," he said, the words a little easier now. He reached out, nudging the tool with one finger. He grinned at Tony. "Show me?"

“I'm going to take that as a yes.” Tony straightened up, groaning as his spine twinged. He braced his hands on the small of his back, groaning as he stretched out the kink. “Right. Let's go take something apart.”

“Sir?"

Tony leaned back, one foot braced on the leg of the workbench. Jarvis had a familiar look on his face, and he had work to do. "I'm not hungry,” he said, trying for a preemptive strike.

"Of course you are not, sir," Jarvis said, shutting the door behind him. Having dispensed with the pleasantries of acknowledging his employer's existence, he turned his full attention to DJ. "It is lunchtime. Are you hungry?"

DJ's eyes darted from Tony to Jarvis and back, his face unreadable.

Tony rolled a silver ball bearing across the workbench in DJ's direction. It rattled across the battered surface, catching the light every time it bounced. DJ reached out, his fingers closing around the tiny steel ball. "We're fine, Jarvis," Tony said, wiggling his fingers against the bench. DJ took the hint and rolled it back. "Bring us something-" He paused. "Low effort."

Jarvis's eyes closed for a second, an expression close to pain sliding across his mobile figures. "Food should be many things, sir," he said, his voice stern. "'Low effort' is not one of them."

Tony bit back a smile, rolling the ball bearing back towards DJ and adding another one. DJ's face lit up. "Minimize the amount of chewing we need to do," Tony told Jarvis, as DJ returned the ball bearings back to him, one after another. "A soup perhaps. Or something else soft." He had four tiny balls in play now, each one bouncing against his fingertips as he rolled them. "Perhaps something suspended in aspic?"

Jarvis stared at him. "You may have some soup with your sandwich, sir."

"I don't want a sandwich," Tony said.

"Then you will get no dessert," Jarvis said, his voice crisp.

"Is... That supposed to influence me? In any way?" Tony asked.

"In honor of our young guest, Mrs. Parker has made strawberry shortcake," Jarvis said. To DJ, he explained, “It's one of her specialties. Quite good.”

“It absolutely is.” Tony gave a firm nod. "Wonderful. I'll have that."

"Only those who have a proper lunch are allowed shortcake, sir," Jarvis said. He watched the ball bearings roll across the workbench. "Do you like these?" he asked DJ with a slight smile. DJ nodded, holding one out to Jarvis. He took it. "Thank you!"

"I'll be having a tray," Tony said. "A double portion of shortcake, and-"

"You can bring those with you, and after lunch, I think I have something you might enjoy," Jarvis said, offering DJ his hand. "Would you like to help Mrs. Parker and I?"

"I feel I'm not getting the respect I deserve here," Tony said, holding up a ball bearing. He rolled it back and forth between his fingertips, studying the play of light along the surface. "I feel that-"

Jarvis took it from him, his gloved fingers slipping the ball from him before Tony even realized he had moved. Tony stared at his empty fingers. He looked at Jarvis, who slipped the ball bearing into the pocket of his coat, giving it a firm pat. "It is lunchtime, sir," he said, and there was amusement in his voice. "And we have a guest, so we will be taking lunch on the patio today."

Tony groaned. “I don't want to-”

“Then no shortcake for you,” Jarvis said, his voice brisk. “Or egg salad.”

Tony paused. “Egg salad?”

“Shall be served on the patio,” Jarvis said. He gave Tony a slight smile. “Would you care to join us for lunch, sir?”

Tony pushed himself upright. “Under duress.”

“As usual, then.”

*

“What are you doing outside of the workshop before midnight? What have you blown up?"

Tony didn't look up from his papers, but his mouth curved into smile. "I am disliking that tone, Miss Potts," he said, scribbling a note in the corner of the blueprint before tossing it aside. "I find it to be disrespectful."

The blueprint rolled itself up, bouncing across the patio table and falling off the edge. Pepper caught it before it could hit the ground, setting it firmly back on the table next to him. "Excellent, that's exactly what I was trying for," she said, reaching for a chair. Jarvis got there before she did, pulling it out for her. She gave him a warm smile, sinking down into the seat. "Thank you, Jarvis, that's very kind of you."

His head inclined just a fraction of an inch. "Of course, Miss Potts." He collected the coffee cup from in front of Tony. "May I get you some tea? Or perhaps a lemonade?"

"Oh, a cup of tea would be marvelous, thank you," she said. “It's been a very long day.”

“Then perhaps a slice of Mrs. Parker's excellent apple strudel with clotted cream?” he offered.

Pepper exhaled, the strain going out of her shoulders. “Bless you, Jarvis.”

"I'll have another coffee," Tony said, frowning down at the plans in front of him.

Jarvis's eyebrows arched, just a bit. "Are we certain that is a good idea, sir?"

"We're not certain of that at all," Tony said, waving a hand through the air. "In fact, we're quite certain that it's a very poor idea, and we're quite certain that we're going to be doing it anyway."

"Of course we are," Jarvis said, his voice expressionless. "Why would we show sense?"

Pepper covered her mouth with one hand, trying to hide her smile. "It does seem to be asking a great deal of him," she said.

"Mockery," Tony said, handing her a sheet of technical specs. "All around me, nothing but mockery."

"You have a hard life," Pepper said. Behind his back, she mouthed 'Lemonade?' at Jarvis. He gave her a slight nod before slipping back into the house. Pepper turned her attention back to the paperwork Tony had given her. "What's this?"

Tony's eyes slid in her direction. "Did you just undermine me?"

"I love you and I'm quite terrified that your heart will explode one day," Pepper told him. She held up the page. "What is this?"

"New engine," he said. The tip of his pencil rattled against the gleaming tabletop, his brows drawn in tight over his eyes. "Very high powered."

Pepper's eyes narrowed as she did some quick calculations. "Very expensive, even if we're just going by materials, and I'm sure the manpower cost will push it into 'astronomical,'" she said. "What is this for, I don't-"

Tony's head came up. "Wait." He surged to his feet, fast enough to knock his chair over. It clattered across the slate of the patio, making Pepper jump. Tony didn't seem to notice. "Where is the child?"

Pepper glanced around. "The- Oh, DJ?" Everything fell into place. "Ah, so that's what pried you out of the workshop while the sun was still out. You brought-"

"Egg salad and a disrespectful, heartless butler pried me out of the workshop, the small ball of trouble was just his excuse," Tony said. He took a step forward, towards the stone stairs that lead down to the gardens, and then immediately reversed direction, his feet skipping over the stone as he turned. "He was just-"

The words cut off suddenly, and Pepper looked over at the far side of the patio, where a large blanket had been spread over the stone, hundreds of marbles scattered over its surface. There was an empty glass and plate next to the blanket, but no other sign of who'd put it all there. She stood. "Maybe he went down to the green house?"

"Maybe he went up the trellis again," Tony said, his voice rising to an unfortunate pitch.

Pepper blinked at him. "The TRELLIS?"

"As it turns out, he thinks that the trellis is easier to climb than a fire escape ladder," Tony said. "If he's on the roof, I'm going to-"

“Afternoon, Pepper. What's, uh, what's going on?”

Pepper twisted around in time to see Bruce walking up the stairs from the garden, a broad brimmed straw hat sitting crooked on his head, and a basket in each hand. They were filled to the brim, turnip greens and beet leaves trailing over the edges, piles of dusty sweet potatoes and carrots, squash and stalks of round, plump brussel sprouts. DJ trailed along right behind him, hopping up the steps, his arms wrapped tight around a similar wicker basket.

“Hello there,” Pepper said, smiling at him. “Did you help Bruce in the garden?”

DJ gave a pleased nod. There was dirt on his forehead, on the side of his jaw, his fingers caked with soil. His feet were bare, and he left small, damp dirty footprints behind him on the slate.

“He is a very good berry picker,” Bruce said, setting his baskets down. “Very patient, very gentle with the plants.” He smiled at DJ, who smiled back. “You were a big help. Thank you.”

DJ beamed up at him. “Welcome,” he said, letting Bruce take his basket from him.

“Aren't you supposed to be doing science?” Tony asked Bruce. “I seem to recall some science on the schedule.”

Bruce's lips twitched. “Who can do science when the blackberries are ripe?” he said, offering Tony one particularly plump specimen from the basket. “The beakers will still be there tomorrow, but the berries might not.”

Tony took it from him. “I better get some cobbler out of this.” He popped it in his mouth, his eyes narrowing on DJ. "And you. I seem to recall telling you not to wander off. “ He frowned. “Didn't you have shoes?"

DJ looked down at his bare feet, and wiggled his toes. He looked back up. "No," he said, and it was so obviously a lie that Pepper had to struggle not to laugh.

"Huh." Tony stroked his fingers over his goatee, his eyes narrowing in consideration. "I could've sworn you had shoes. Very nice new shoes." DJ shook his head, and Tony nodded, his hands braced on his hips. "Well, we'll just have to get you some, then."

DJ's lips pursed. "No?"

"Oh, I can't possibly let you go barefoot, something could happen," Tony said. He leaned in. "I can't be responsible for that."

"Shoes are horrible," DJ told him, and Pepper lost it, laughing so hard that she had to brace a hand on Tony's back to keep herself upright.

Tony glared at her over his shoulder, but there was a smile dancing in the depths of his eyes. "Are you quite finished?" he asked, his tone polite.

"No," Pepper said, and collapsed against him, laughing against his shoulder.

Tony patted her gently on the head. "You are encouraging the child," he said.

Pepper peeked over at DJ, who was grinning at her, his face alight with the warmth of it, and she struggled against a rush of warmth. "Am I encouraging you?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Wiping her eyes, Pepper straightened up. "Oh, I haven't laughed like that in so long." She looked up, letting the sunlight warm her cheeks. "In forever." She sat down at the table, pulling a chair out for DJ. “Bruce, sit down, I'll split my strudel with you.”

“Tempting, but I've got to, uh, I've got to get these into the kitchen,” Bruce said. He took off his hat, depositing it gently on DJ's head. He collected his baskets, shifting their weight with a roll of his shoulder. “Clint'll want to know what he's got to work with.”

“You mean, he'll want to know what he has to complain about,” Pepper said, her chin braced on her folded hands.

“That, too,” Bruce said. “Bobbi's still down in the greenhouse, finishing with the samples.”

“At least someone around here is capable of doing their job,” Tony said to DJ, who nodded. Tony's lips twitched. “You're filthy.”

“Yes,” DJ said. He didn't seem especially concerned by that.

“This is-”

Jarvis stepped back onto the patio, a tray balanced easily between his hands. Peter was right behind him, holding a bushel basket in one hand and a hunk of pastry in the other. Tony arched an eyebrow at him. “You're going to ruin your dinner,” he said.

Peter shook his head. “No. I won't,” he said, his cheeks bulging. 

“He won't,” Jarvis agreed, setting a small plate of strudel in front of Pepper. He looked at DJ. “Would you like some tea?” DJ shook his head. “Lemonade?”

DJ shook his head again, but he watched, his gaze intent, as Jarvis set Pepper's cup in front of her and filled it from the tea pot. Pepper smiled at him. “Would you like a bite of my strudel?” she offered. He shook his head again, but picked up a spoon from the table, running his fingers over the curve of the bowl.

Tony frowned at the cup of lemonade that Jarvis set in front of him. “Where's my coffee?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, sir, it turns out that we are entirely out of coffee,” Jarvis said. 

“How do you lie with a straight face like that?” Tony asked him

Jarvis frowned. “Sir. I'm deeply wounded by your distrust.” Mrs. Parker came out on the patio, drying a massive glass jar with a towel as she walked, and he looked in her direction. “Mrs. Parker, have we any coffee?”

“It's such a shame, we've not a bean left in the house,” she said without missing a beat. She paused to kiss Peter on the cheek, then headed for the blanket. “Welcome home, Miss Potts. DJ, will you come here and put your marbles away?” 

DJ scrambled down from his chair, bouncing across the patio. Mrs. Parker knelt down next to him, collecting the marbles that rolled out of his reach. “Thank you, dear.”

“I do not believe either of you,” Tony said, but he picked up the lemonade. “I've had a very hard day. I had to pose for pictures, and then I was expelled from my workshop, and I had to climb up the trellis twice to retrieve an intruder-”

“Did you go up the trellis again?” Jarvis asked DJ, who scrunched down, concentrating very hard on moving the marbles into the jar. Jarvis smiled. “It is very tempting, isn't it?”

“No,” Tony mumbled into his lemonade. Pepper smiled at him around the tines of her fork, and he made a face in her direction. “Encouraging.”

“I do my best,” she said. “Mrs. Parker, this is delicious.”

“Oh, thank you, always so sweet, you are,” Mrs. Parker said. She paused, letting DJ drop the last few Marbles into the jar. “Thank you, dear.” She straightened up. “Peter, are you going down to the garden? Why don't you take DJ with you.”

"You a good climber?" Peter asked, and DJ nodded. Peter grinned, holding up the bushel basket. "Wanna help me gather apples, then? I could use some help."

"No," Tony said, as DJ put the lid back on the jar.

"Yes," DJ said.

"It is only a matter of time before one of you falls and breaks something," Tony told Peter. "And-"

"They'll be fine," Mrs. Parker said, shaking out the blanket. Tony looked at her. She looked back, unimpressed. Tony gestured at the two boys, and she heaved a sigh. "Mr. Stark, they will be fine. Peter is a very responsible boy."

“I'm not,” Peter told DJ with an easy smile. “But I'm a good climber.”

DJ nodded. “Me, too.”

“Wonderful, there are some pears that-”

“Am I the only one with sense here?” Tony asked. Pepper bit her lip to keep from saying something unfortunate. He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

Pepper shook her head. “I didn't say anything, Mr. Stark.”

“But you wanted-”

"You seem to recall you riding my best serving tray down the full length of the grand staircase like a sled," Jarvis said, catching the other end of the blanket and helping Mrs. Parker move it to the railing. “On an almost daily basis.”

Pepper's mouth dropped open. "You didn't," she said to Tony.

Tony stared at Jarvis. “Why do I still employ you?”

“Because I am the only one who can make your toast the way you like it,” Jarvis said without missing a beat.

“Everyone else puts too much butter on it and not enough cinnamon,” Tony said to Pepper. 

“You just can't get good help these days,” she said with a straight face.

“I know. It's a nightmare.”

“Good afternoon!” Bobbi strode up the stairs, her long legs taking them two at a time. Her cheeks were pink, her long blond hair plaited into a braid and wrapped around her head. She ruffled Peter's hair as she walked past. “Stay out of the greenhouse, trouble, we've got an experiment running and things break around you.”

“Once,” Peter said, trying to smooth his hair down. Bobbi gave him a look. “Twice. At most.”

“Stay out,” she said, “before the boss has us both out in the street.”

“I'm a benevolent overlord,” Tony said, sneaking a bite of Pepper's strudel. She smacked at his fingertips, making him laugh.

“Yes, but Miss Potts is a cruel taskmaster,” Bobbi said, leaning over the back of Pepper's chair.

Laughing, Pepper offered her a forkful of pastry and cream. “Flatterer.”

Bobbi leaned over to take it. Tony sat back in his seat. “Actually, Peter and DJ need adult supervision. And you're available.”

Bobbi licked her lips, flicking away the last of the cream with the pad of her thumb. “So sorry, Mr. Stark, but I don't babysit.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Not in my job description.”

“Everything's in your job description,” Tony told her. “I should know. I wrote it. And I can rewrite it.”

“They're off to fetch the last of the apples,” Mrs. Parker said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “And Jarvis and I have dinner to get on the table, so perhaps-”

Bobbi's eyes lit up. “See, that's a different story. Tree climbing is in my job description,” she said. DJ went scrambling past her, and she snagged him by the back of the shirt. “Here, Pete, I'll take the basket, and you can take this.”

“Want a piggyback ride, sport?” Peter asked. DJ nodded, and Peter crouched down to let him scramble onto his back. “Ready?”

“Ready,” DJ said, wrapping his arms around Peter's neck.

“Don't get into trouble,” Pepper said. “And remember we have ladders.

“What's the fun in that, ma'am?” Peter asked, straightening up. “And it's not that we mean to get into trouble, sometimes, it just...” He shrugged. “It happens.”

“It might find you, but try not to find it,” Tony said, sipping his lemonade.

“No promises, boss,” Bobbi said, the basket thrown over her shoulder. “Let's go, boys.”

*

"What... Is it?"

DJ blinked up at him. "Cat," he said, with a great deal of confidence.

Tony stared down at the... Thing that was wandering around his library floor. It was a tangled mop of brownish orange fur, and judging by the way it was moving, it was probably a quadruped. It had something like a tail, a fluffy banner that fluttered in the creature's wake, a distinct kink halfway up its length.

Tony looked at Peter. "Cat," Peter agreed. Tony didn't break eye contact, and one of Peter's shoulders rose in a half shrug. "I'm... Sure it's a cat."

Tony went back to looking at the creature. It stopped, and started rolling sideways, the movement at a 90 degree angle to the way that it was previously heading. Tony looked back at Peter. Peter gave him a brave smile. "Ninety percent certain that it's a cat."

"Right," Tony said, as the thing seemed to wiggled up and over a chair, the movement strangely liquid. 

Peter watched it flop over the arm of the chair. "I'm... Fairly confident," he said. He looked at Tony, a bright smile on his face. "It's a very good cat. If. You know." His eyes slid sideways. "It's a cat."

"I love how quickly you're backtracking here," Tony told him. "Bruce. Seriously?"

Bruce hid a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup, and tried to cover it up with a cough. "Bobbi said they found it in one of the trees. But I've seen it around the garden before; it's been taking care of the mice around my greenhouse," he said, giving Tony a lopsided smile. He balanced his cup on his knee, a bad choice based on the way his leg was twitching. "So, whatever it is, my, uh, my opinion is that it's-" He paused, his head bobbing a bit as he considered. "Useful."

The thing landed on Tony's desk with a thump, making Tony jump. "Wonderful," he said, trying to figure out where its eyes were. Or if it had eyes. "What're the odds that it's infecting my office with fleas right this moment?"

"We washed it!" Peter said. Tony looked at him. "We gave it a really..." He gave Tony a very confident smile. "Thorough bath."

Tony's eyebrows rose. "It... It was dirtier than this before?" he asked, because he wasn't sure he believed that at all.

DJ folded his arms on the edge of Tony's desk. "Yes," he said, with a big grin. He reached out, his fingers trailing gently across the thing's back. It leaned against his palm, a rumbling sound somewhere between a purr and a growl emanating from it. 

Tony leaned back in his chair, not so subtlety putting some distance between his throat and the lump of fur. He considered moving DJ as well, but the thing seemed to like him. Tony took a deep breath. "Are we sure it's... Domesticated?"

DJ gave a firm nod. "Yes."

"Really. I'm not going to ask what you're basing that on. But...” Tony squinted at the 'cat.' “No taste for human blood?" Tony asked him, trying to keep a straight face. DJ shook his head. "Really? None at all?"

"None at all," DJ said, the words careful. He gave Tony a hopeful look. "Stay?"

"Stay?" Tony repeated, stalling for time.

"Can it?" DJ asked. His eyes were gigantic. "Stay?"

Tony considered that. And the fact that the thing was possibly chewing on the spine of one of his ledgers. "I'm not going to lie," he said at last. "I'm not sure that would be wise. Or legal."

DJ's face fell, and Peter straightened up. "I can help him take care of it," he said. Tony gave him a look, and Peter didn't seem to notice. "And he'll be good, he'll be useful, I mean, there's always going to be mice, and maybe with this, all we have to do-"

Tony rubbed his forehead. "Peter..."

"Is give it a nice place to sleep and maybe some milk, and DJ's really good at brushing him, and I can take care of-"

Tony's hand fell back to his side. "Peter."

"Feeding it and making sure that we keep things from getting destroyed, as much as I can, I mean, sometimes things get destroyed and it's my fault, and really, there's not much I can do about that, but-"

"PETER!" Tony said, and Peter stopped, his eyes blinking owlishly in Tony's direction. Tony slumped back into his chair. "Is it a cat, Peter?"

Peter's mouth opened. Closed. He looked down at DJ, who gave him a nod. Peter looked back at Tony. "Absolutely, Mr. Stark. We stake our reputations on it."

“Yes, but your reputations are based on causing problems and giving me headaches,” Tony said, stabbing a pen in his direction. “So. Not much of a loss.” He gave the cat a look. “Do you promise to be...” He scowled at the cat. “Minimally destructive?”

The cat yawned, showing off a massive maw lined with sharp, white teeth.

“I'm going to take that as a yes,” Tony said. He leaned back in his chair, waving a hand in the air in a universal gesture of surrender. “Fine. It can stay.” DJ's face lit up, and Tony struggled against a smile. “What are you going to call it?”

DJ considered the cat, his eyes narrowed. He scrambled up, sitting down on the edge of Tony's desk. “Furbro,” he said at last. 

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. “Are you... Certain? He looks more like a...” His voice trailed away, because as it turned out, he had no way to finish that sentence.

“Sandy?” Bruce suggested. “He looks like a Sandy.”

“Furbro,” DJ repeated.

“Well, he sure is furry,” Peter said. He reached out, and scratched the cat behind at tuft that might've been an ear. “So I guess that works.” The cat bumped against his fingertips, its tail swishing through the air. 

“I'm going to regret this, aren't I?” Tony asked Bruce.

“If you're not regretting this already, you're not paying attention,” Bruce said.

Tony struggled against a smile. “Thank you. That's very comforting.” There was a knock at the library door, and he looked up. “Come in.”

Natasha pushed the door open. “Rhodey's back, so dinner will be served in twenty minutes.” The cat wandered past her, and her head swung in a slow arc, watching it with a bemused expression. “What is this?”

“We think it's a cat,” Tony told her, his chin braced on one hand. “For our own mental health, we've decided to agree that it's a cat.”

“Wonderful,” she said. She crouched down, holding out a hand, long fingers curled back against her palm. The cat padded over to rub against her knuckles. “Hello, there, fluffy.”

DJ grinned at her, his feet bouncing against the side of Tony's desk. “Furbro.”

“Ah. Furbro.” Natasha straightened up, not seeming to mind as the cat wound its way around her ankles. “I shall notify the chef that we have another mouth to feed.”

“He does not get a seat at the dinner table,” Tony said, and he tried to sound like he meant it.

The cat stretched up, bracing its front paws on the edge of the planter, its whiskers wriggling as it sniffed the soil. Tony stood. "Oh, no. Out of my plant. Out of-" The cat's head tipped in his direction, studying him for only a moment before it went back to pawing at the dirt. "Absolutely not." Tony leaned over, hoping that he could extract it without losing a hand.

The crack-snap of shattering glass made no sense for a moment, it was like an explosion in miniature, like lightning, even as it was echoed by the shards of glass cascading to the floor. Tony heard it happen, more than saw it happen, the glass catching the light out of the corner of his eye as it came apart.

The next thing he knew, he was hit from behind, a heavy body bearing him straight down to the carpeted floor.

"What-"

"Shooter." Natasha's voice floated in the strange, hollow silence. "Keep him down, Bruce."

"No-" The word was choked off, sticking in Tony's throat. He twisted, trying to bring his head around, trying to get an arm loose, but Bruce was a dead weight on his back, pinning him in place. "Don't-"

Natasha seemed to glide past, a knife in her hand, and Tony didn't know where she'd pulled that from, where she'd been hiding it. She hit the doors to the balcony at a dead run, her skirts fluttering around her as she caught the railing in one hand, throwing herself up and over, disappearing into the darkness of the garden.

"God DAMN it, Romanov!" Tony roared after her. "Don't you-"

There was a scrambling sound next to him, feet kicking hard against the carpet, and Tony's hand snapped out, making a desperate grab for Peter as he lunged towards the balcony. “Parker, don't, what the hell are you-”

Peter dodged, staying just out of reach, crashing into the side of the desk and hitting the balcony in a crouch. He hit the railing with both hands, hopping up and over. The whole thing happened so fast that he barely had a chance to swear.

“Get off of me, get OFF OF ME,” Tony yelled, and Bruce's hands were locked on his shirt, his weight pinning Tony to the floor.

“Sit. Still,” Bruce snapped. “They're after you. If you get up-”

“Where's the kid?” Tony twisted around. “DJ! Where-”

DJ's head popped up on the other side of the desk, and Tony's breath left him in something like a sob. “It's okay,” he said, “it's okay, I'm sorry, it's going to be fine, don't be afraid. It's going to be fine, I promise, just-”

DJ blinked at him, and darted around the desk towards them. He crouched down next to the desk, his back braced against the wood, a solid silver candlestick clutched in his hands. Tony stared at him. “What're you-”

“Fight,” DJ said, waving the candlestick over his head. “We fight!”

“No,” Bruce said, making a desperate grab for DJ. “We don't, we wait here, where it's safe, we-”

Tony grabbed the back of DJ's shirt, dragging him to a stop. DJ leaned forward, his feet kicking at the ground, the candlestick swinging wildly through the air. “Am I the only one who is sane here?” Tony managed.

“If you were sane, you would've called the police after the first one,” Bruce growled against his shoulder.

"We're not calling the police, we're not calling anyone," Tony gritted out, his fingers locked on the back of DJ's shirt. "We're going to-"

There was a rustling sound, and then Peter's head popped up back over the balcony railing. "Natasha caught him," he said.

"You." The word vibrated in the air. "Get in here." Tony finally succeeded in throwing Bruce off of him, rolling into a sitting position. Bruce slumped against the side of the desk, his face pasty white and damp with sweat. Tony stabbed a finger in Peter's direction. "NOW."

Peter blinked at him, all huge eyes and confusion. "She- She caught him?" he tried.

"In," Tony breathed, and Peter scrambled up over the railing, all awkward long legs and skinny arms. Tony got his legs under him, pushing himself upright. "Are you all right?"

"Oh." Peter blinked at him again. There were leaves in his hair, and a tear on one shoulder of his shirt. "I'm fine. Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"Good. Then I can murder you with a clear conscience," Tony said.

Bruce exhaled, a weak little laugh. "No murder, Tony." He wiped a shaking hand over his mouth. "Let's... Let's not murder anyone."

"Well, now we have no choice," Tony said to him. "Because Natasha caught him. And now we've got him. What are we supposed to DO with him, if murder is off the table?" He stared at Bruce. "Any suggestions?"

"I'd suggest that we calm down before we do something, uh, something that we might regret," Bruce said. He smiled at DJ. "You okay?"

Tony's head jerked down towards DJ, who was still holding the candlestick in both hands like a baseball bat. "I'll be taking that," he said, making an effort to release DJ's shirt. "If I'm not allowed to murder anyone, you absolutely are not."

DJ gave a firm nod. "Murder," he said, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Wonderful, you've been here for, what, two days, and we've managed to completely destroy any moral compass that you might've had," Tony said, plucking the candlestick from DJ's grasp. DJ made a hopping attempt to grab it again, and Tony struggled between screaming and laughing.

Peter grinned down at DJ. "What, were you going to take 'em out yourself?"

DJ nodded again, his chin set at a stubborn angle. "Yes."

"You're a scrapper, aren't you? I mean, you shouldn't get involved, you're just a kid, but-"

“Are you joking right now?” Tony asked. He snagged Peter by the back of the shirt and force marched him towards the library door. “It's like you know the script, but don't know what your role is.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Peter said, hopping to keep pace with Tony. “Let her go after him alone?”

Tony stopped, his head turning to stare down at Peter. He took a deep breath. “YES.”

Peter blinked. “That's not-”

The sound of pounding feet coming up the hallway was the only warning he had before the library door exploded open. “Sir!” Jarvis skidded to a stop, his hand locked on the doorknob. Rhodey was right behind him, a pistol in one hand and Bruce's satchel in the other.

“We're fine,” Tony said. “We're-” He went to wave them off and realized he was still holding DJ's weapon. He tossed it in the general direction of the couch. “By which I mean, I'm fine. Bruce is having an attack of the vapors-”

“You tried to BITE me,” Bruce said, as Jarvis offered him a hand up.

“And Peter will be sent to a boarding school of some sort in the morning, some sort of prep school where he will be buried under philosophical texts and mathematical treatises until we forget that he is a shame upon this household,” Tony continued.

“Can't I just go to bed without dinner?” Peter asked, his voice faint.

“Natasha is having her way with armed assailants in my garden, you left me with a child, and I haven't had dinner yet,” Tony said, his voice rising.

“Tony, I need you to sit down,” Rhodey said. He moved over to the balcony, pulling the doors shut. “Before you fall down.” The cat rubbed up against his leg, and he jumped. “What the hell is-”

“We have a cat now,” Tony said, his voice dire. “And I already have carpet burn on my face, so I think I'll stay standing.”

Jarvis scooped DJ up, balancing him on his hip. “Were you scared?” he asked.

DJ narrowed his eyes. “Murder,” he said, his voice firm, and Tony pressed a hand to his face.

“Fine. Someone. Call. The police.”

*

It was awfully late for someone to be sitting on the front steps of his building. 

Steve squinted into the gloom, wondering if someone had been locked out, and if so, if their family'd had reason. He shifted his bag higher on his back, his fingers tightening on the strap as the waiting figure pushed himself to his feet.

“Evening, Officer Rogers!”

Steve frowned. “Hogan?”

Hogan swept his hat off his head, bobbing something like a bow. “In the flesh, in the flesh.” He slapped his cap against his thigh. “Went down the t' the station, looking for you, they said you weren't on duty tonight.”

Steve's shoulder jerked upwards, pushing his bag a little bit further behind his back. “Took someone's shift,” he said. “Might not have told the brass about it.”

Hogan nodded. “Lemme guess, he woulda been in trouble.”

“A little.” Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And speaking of which...”

“Yeah, we got a bit of trouble of our own.” Hogan nodded towards the door of Steve's building. “Best we discuss it off the street. If you don't mind?”

Steve nodded. “I think you'd better.”


	4. Chapter 4

"Bolsheviks."

Captain O'Brien didn't look up from his paperwork. "Bolsheviks."

Steve dropped the file folder on O'Brien's desk. It hit with a thump, and O'Brien glanced up, one bloodshot eye locking on Steve with brutal intent. "Do we have a problem here, Rogers?" he asked, his voice cutting.

Steve braced his hands on the desk, leaning his weight against his palms. "Bolsheviks," he repeated. "That's what we're going with, sir?"

O'Brien reached for his coffee. "There's no 'going with' here, Rogers," he said. The cigar by his elbow smoldered in the ashtray, and he reached for it. "He confessed." He glanced up again, his eyebrows drawn up tight over his eyes. "Confessed to being a communist and trying to take out Mr. Stark for the good of the cause."

Steve stabbed a fingertip against the folder. "He's been arrested more than a dozen times, sir. He's got an arrest record longer than half the breadlines in his city. He got picked up at age eleven for discharging a pistol in the middle of a street fight. We've got him for bootlegging, attempted murder, half a dozen organized crime rackets-"

"Also, way back in the day, horse theft," O'Brien said, his teeth flashing around the stub of his cigar. "This whole rant of yours got a point, Rogers?"

"The point is, after all these years of clearly being muscle and murder for hire, working for mobsters and strike breakers, you're saying he's suddenly seen the light and has dedicated himself to the communist party?" Steve asked.

O'Brien exhaled, a thin stream of blue-gray smoke curling through the air between them. "I ain't saying that," he said at last, rubbing his forehead. "He's saying that." He flicked a gesture at the file. "And we got no reason to say he's lying."

Steve bit back a swear. "Other than his entire history?" 

"Look." O'Brien stabbed the cigar against the ash tray, his mouth taking on a sarcastic smile. "Stark's a shining beacon that any man can make it in this cold, cruel world we live in, Rogers. You got enough gumption, and enough smarts, and you can drag yourself out of the gutter and out to a mansion on Long Island." He slumped back into his chair. "Makes sense that the communists and anarchists would want him dead, don't it?"

"It does, sir, but it makes no sense that this man-" Steve stabbed the file folder with enough force to make his finger hurt. "Is a convert to any cause that doesn't put a dollar in his pocket. He'd sell his own grandmother for enough of a payout, I'd sooner believe Stark of being a communist before him.”

O'Brien considered that. "And yet, when he was brought in, those were the first words out of his mouth. What're we to think, Rogers?"

"That he's a hired killer who was told by his employer exactly what to say to cover his tracks if he got caught," Steve said. He straightened up. "I've got no doubt that the communists want Stark dead, but I don't think they can afford this lummox. Let me-"

"No," O'Brien said, his eyes staring blankly at the far wall.

Steve's jaw worked. "Sir, I-"

"No," O'Brien repeated, his tone bored.

"Will you hear me out, I think-"

O'Brien pushed himself to his feet, his hands braced on his desk, his broad shoulders squared, his head down like a bull ready to charge. "No," he said, and it was quiet and firm. "No. You won't be talkin' to him. No. You won't be investigatin' this. No. You're gonna put that file right back where you found it, and you're going to walk yourself back out to your assigned beat, and you're not going to say a damn word about it."

Steve took a deep breath. “Sir, I might not be Stark's biggest fan, but no one deserves to be gunned down in their own house. If someone is targeting him, then we have to find out who. And if it is the Bolsheviks? Then it's the Bolsheviks. But if it's not?” He shook his head. “Someone's trying to get away with murder.”

O'Brien's eyes flicked towards the ceiling. "Mother Mary, grant me patience," he said. He collapsed back into his seat, his weight hitting with enough force to make the wood creak. He tossed a leg onto the top of his desk, leaning back in his chair. "So. You're putting your job on the line for this. Of all things."

One of Steve's shoulders rose and fell, a half shrug. “You're going to fire me eventually, sir Probably because I piss off someone above you. At least this, I feel like I'm being fired for the right reasons.”

O'Brien's mouth twitched. “You're a piece of work, Rogers. A real piece of work.” He picked up an envelope from his blotter. “Miss Potts has petitioned the mayor for a police detail to protect Mr. Stark, and as it turns out, the commissioner thinks that staying in Stark's good graces is worth taking you out of the rotation.” He held out the envelope, pinned between two fingers. “In a surprise to no one.”

Steve took the envelope from him. “Sir?”

“Pack your bags. You've been reassigned to Stark Manor for the time being.” O'Brien arched an eyebrow at him. “Seems someone up there likes you, Rogers.”

Steve studied the envelope. “Or really doesn't,” he said.

“Or really, really doesn't,” O'Brien agreed. He nodded at the file folder. “Miss Potts has requested any updates on the situation that we might be able to provide her. Take that along with you, and Rogers?” 

Steve looked up at him. “Sir?”

O'Brien gave him a lopsided smile. “Make us proud.” He went back to his paperwork. “Good luck.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Thank you, sir. I think.”

*

“Good morning, sir.”

“Oh, God.” Tony squeezed his eyes shut. “Is it morning?”

“It is, sir.” Jarvis sounded amused. Which was rather unkind of him.

“Fine. Wake me when it's afternoon,” Tony said, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Or evening. Or possibly tomorrow.”

“I would, sir, but then your breakfast would go to waste, and we have rules in this household about wasting food.” The words were accompanied by the rattle of dishes on a tray, a sharp punctuation mark on the sentence. “The chef was kind enough to make you eggs benedict this morning.”

Tony made a face. “I fired the chef last night,” he said. “I fired everyone last night.” He raised an arm, pointing in the general direction of Jarvis' voice. “I'm fairly certain I fired you last night.”

“You did, in fact, seem intent on emptying the house,” Jarvis said, unconcerned. “I pointed out that tossing us all into the streets in the dead of night was beneath you.”

“You have far too high of an opinion of me, Jarvis.” Tony rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. “Since it's morning, you're all fired. Get out.”

“Of course, sir. As soon as you've finished breakfast and we've handled the dishes. And the linens. And your shirts are back from the laundry, but will need to be pressed. There's also the canning, Mrs. Parker couldn't possibly leave that half finished. And-”

“If I eat breakfast, will you stop talking?” Tony mumbled into his pillow.

“There's only one way to find out, sir.” A pause. “You have a guest.”

Tony pried open one eye. A blurry mass of brown and white was terrifyingly close to his face. “Oh,” Tony said. “Good morning?”

The cat gave him a disdainful look and flopped over, spreading its bulk over the top of Tony's pillow. Behind it, DJ was waiting, his face hopeful. 

"Hello there." Tony put some distance between him and the lump of fur, and DJ ducked back down, a faint giggle echoing in his wake. Tony smiled. "Who let you in?"

Jarvis opened the curtains with a flick of his hands, making Tony wince. "He has already finished his breakfast and wished to help me bring yours up." He stepped back, retrieving the tray from the bedside table. "Wasn't that nice of him?"

Tony considered DJ. "Depends," he said, his eyes narrowed against the full glare of the late morning light. "Are you just here to steal my pastries?"

DJ grinned. "Yes," he said, and Tony choked on a laugh.

"I admire your honesty. I admire it enough to give you some of my fruit," Tony told him. He pushed himself upright, groaning as he slumped back against the headboard, trying to find a comfortable spot that didn't involve any contact with the cat, who was now chewing on one of its back feet with single minded determination. "Actually, you can have everything you want. Just give me the coffee."

"You need to eat your breakfast, sir," Jarvis said, disapproval obvious in his voice. He set the tray over Tony's lap. "All of it."

"How much can I feed to the tiny disaster area?" Tony asked Jarvis, gesturing in DJ's direction. 

"None," Jarvis said. "He has had a bowl of oatmeal, toast, and a cup of milk this morning." He smiled down at DJ. "And most of Peter's boiled egg, half of Miss Potts's roasted apple, and four slices of bacon that Bruce slipped him when he thought no one was looking."

Tony grinned as he reached for his napkin. "And he's still after my pastry, so..." He patted the bed next to him. "Guess it wasn't enough. Come on, hop up here, kid. I'll distract Jarvis and you can finish off my eggs benedict."

"We are wary of the hollandaise, so I suspect that might be the only thing on that tray that's safe," Jarvis said. He gave DJ a boost up onto Tony's bed, and waited while he settled down, legs crossed under him, at the end of the bed. "What do you think?" Jarvis asked.

DJ looked up, his mouth hanging open as he stared up at the fresco above the bed. Tony followed his gaze. "Yes, that's quite the thing, isn't it?" he asked, amused. "My father had that painted." He looked up, a piece of toast dangling from his fingertips. The painter had been very enthusiastic, but not particularly talented. He had, however, had quite the grasp of female anatomy, managing a dozen or so well rounded goddesses and nymphs, their charms barely covered by the gauzy film of their togas. Tony took a bite of his toast. "He was quite the connoisseur." He paused. “Of women. Not art.”

DJ twisted around, trying to get a different angle on things, and ended up tipping over, falling back onto the bed.

"A common reaction to the very special decorating aesthetic around these parts," Tony said, amused. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do you like your room? It's... Better."

DJ's head rolled in his direction, and he gave Tony a quick smile and a quicker nod. 

"We have dusted all of the shelves and inspected every one of the books," Jarvis said. He threw open Tony's closet, his mouth pursed as he considered the contents. "Perhaps the gray today, sir?"

"I'll leave that to you," Tony said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and digging into his eggs. "Did you find any good ones?"

DJ nodded. "Trains," he said, picking up Tony's spoon and rolling the stem between his fingertips. "And animals."

"I remember the train books," Tony said, around a mouthful of toast. "I had more than a few of those. Bet there's some new ones by now, maybe we should check with the book shops." He pushed the cat away from his breakfast tray. "You. No." The cat glared up at him, a low, sustained rumble of sound rolling through its solid frame. Tony stared at it. "Is this... Is this a growl or a purr?"

Jarvis poked his head out of the closet. "A purr, sir," he said, before disappearing again.

"Are we basing this on experience, or are we simply guessing?" Tony asked him. He cut off a corner of his egg and put it on his saucer, setting it on the bed in front of the cat. That seemed to appease it, and it settled down in a pile of fur to consume his offering. "This is going to kill me in my sleep, isn't it?"

"The cat spent the night with our young guest, and he seems quite healthy," Jarvis said, striding out of the closet, a neatly pressed suit draped over his arms. He spread it over the end of the bed, his hands careful. "What do you think?" Jarvis asked DJ. DJ clambered up to his knees, considering the suit. He looked up and gave Jarvis a firm nod. Jarvis's face relaxed into a slight, gentle smile. "I agree. It is one of my favorites."

"Do I get a vote?" Tony asked.

"I do apologize, sir, but you've already waived your right to a say in the situation," Jarvis said. "Do finish your breakfast. And don't talk with your mouth full, it's uncouth.”

"I ate an egg, what more do you want from me?" Tony muttered into his cup. "For me, that's far better than average. I'm awake. I've consumed actual food. I'm having a conversation with the child. I haven't screamed or kicked the cat."

Jarvis studied him, his eyebrows arched. "For you, that is exceptional."

"This is what I'm saying," Tony said, considering his fruit salad as DJ stole one of his sugar cubes. "I'm thinking you didn't feed anyone in this household other than me, Jarvis."

"It has been a difficult morning, sir," Jarvis told him, opening the door to the bathroom. “I shall ready your shaving kit.”

DJ reached out, his small fingers sneaking a crisp piece of bacon from the edge of Tony's plate. Tony watched, his heart sinking, as DJ tucked the bacon into a napkin in his lap, folding the fabric tightly around his prize.

"Hey," Tony said. He picked up a piece of toast, holding it out to DJ. "Don't do that." He managed a smile. "There's always going to be food, okay? You can-" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "You don't have to do that."

DJ took the toast, taking a delicate bite from the crust. He smiled at Tony over the edge of the toast, and Tony smiled back. "Is it good?" Tony asked, leaning back into the pillows. "Jarvis, did you make the toast?"

"I may have had a hand in your breakfast, yes," Jarvis said, his voice echoing out of the bathroom. 

"Jarvis makes the best toast," Tony told DJ. “It's the cinnamon butter.”

"We all have our specialties, it is true," Jarvis said. He emerged from the bathroom. "Will you be needing me to run your bath, sir?"

Tony took a deep breath. "Did you enjoy destroying your clock?" he asked DJ. DJ nodded, both hands cradling the toast now. Tony smiled at him. "Good. I think I'm going to need your help for a slightly larger project this morning."

*

“Ah!” Jarvis stepped back, waving Steve through the door. “Good day, Officer Rogers. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Steve doffed his cap, tucking it under his arm. “Good day, Mr. Jarvis. I have the report on last night's incident.” He shifted his weight. “Miss Potts requested it?”

"Ah. I see." Jarvis shut the door, his eyes skimming over the small, battered satchel in Steve's hand. “May I take your things, sir, or should you prefer to keep them with you?”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.” Steve handed over his hat, and considered the bag. “Is Miss Potts available?”

“I'm afraid she had a meeting this morning,” Jarvis said. There was a faint smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. He held out a hand. “But I'm sure that Mr. Stark will be pleased to hear what you've discovered.”

Steve retrieved the file from his bag. “Does Mr. Stark know that Miss Potts made the request?” he asked.

“I suspect he does not.” Jarvis took Steve's bag. “However, she has been his assistant for many years now. He is seldom surprised by her actions at this point.” He smiled. “He might not always approve, but he acknowledges that she has a better grasp on certain situations than he might.”

Steve nodded. “What 'situations' would those be?”

“Just about anything involving his health or safety,” Jarvis said, his voice brisk. He paused, just long enough to be noticeable, just long enough for Steve to wonder why, and then he turned on his heel. "This way, please."

Steve fell into step behind him, still a bit unnerved by the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cavernous great hall. "I can just leave it with you," he offered, because it was worth a try. "I'm sure Mr. Stark is busy."

"Mr. Stark is always busy," Jarvis said, glancing back over his shoulder in Steve's direction. There was a glint in his eye, something bright and amused. "But he benefits from the occasional interruption." 

Somewhere above them, someone started hammering, the clatter of metal on metal echoing through the great hall. Steve's head came up. “Repairs?”

“The household is in a bit of an uproar this morning,” Jarvis said. “Which is not unusual, but-” He glanced at Steve. “Last night's events may have contributed to the current state of affairs.”

Steve nodded. “Jarvis? Is he all right?”

“He is quite well, and it is very kind of you to inquire,” Jarvis said. He lead the way up the stairs, around the hall. The hammering got louder as they got closer, and Steve wondered what kind of repairs they were making. A single gunman shouldn't have been able to do that much damage, not if he'd been captured as quickly as they'd reported.

Jarvis paused at a door, shifting Steve's hat and bag into one hand. “Here we are, Officer.” He pushed it open, waving Steve into the room.

Inside, there was a workman standing on top of the billiard table, his back to the door, his head tilted up to study the damaged light fixture above him.=. A heavy drop cloth had been tossed over the tabletop, but Steve still flinched as the man moved, his worn boots bunching the cloth with each step. His pants were stained with grease, a long sleeved shirt tied around his narrow waist. His white undershirt clung to the lines of his back, the sleek muscles of his shoulders and arms on full display. As Steve watched, caught off guard, the workman propped one gloved hand on his hip, his other pushing his dark hair back.

Jarvis cleared his throat, and Steve realized he was staring, something uncomfortably like lust curling low in his stomach. Jarvis shut the door. "Sir, you have a guest."

The workman turned around, and Tony Stark glanced over his shoulder at them. Steve stared up at him, suddenly achingly aware of how hard his heart was pounding. Stark grinned at him, and there was a streak of grease along one of his cheekbones, plaster dust sprinkled in his black hair. "So I do." He stripped off his gloves, tucking them into his pocket before he hopped down off the table, the motion smooth and easy. "Good afternoon, Officer Rogers."

Steve's mouth worked for a painfully long time before he managed to form words. "How can I help you?"

Stark's head tipped to the side, one eyebrow arching. "I do believe that's my line," he said, his lips twitching up on one side. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, his fingers tangling in the strands. "In that I don't know why you're here?"

Behind him, Jarvis cleared his throat. "Officer Rogers brought you the file on the most recent attack," he said, his voice crisp, and Steve snapped back to reality with painful suddenness.

"Yes. I-" He fumbled for the file folder, managing to get a solid grip on it at last. He held it out to Stark. "Yes. The commissioner-" He stopped, and tried again. “The commissioner reviewed everything personally.”

Stark took it, his fingertips dirty against the crisp paper. "Wonderful," he said, his voice cutting. He leaned back against the billiard table, his hips canted forward as he flipped through the pages. "I don't suppose he had anything useful to say?"

"He seldom does," Steve said, the words out of his mouth before he even knew they were there. Stark's head snapped up, his eyebrows arching, and Steve felt his face heat. "I mean-"

Stark grinned at him. "You meant what you said, my God, you really have no filter, do you?" But he was still smiling when he went back to the file. "And I meant, did the man you arrested have anything useful to say?"

"Oh." Steve shook his head. "No. He gave a statement, but it seemed-” 

He paused, trying to find a diplomatic way to put this, and Stark glanced up. “Scripted?” he asked.

Steve frowned at him. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out. “Mr. Stark, are you-”

"Right. So this was a waste of everyone's time.” He flipped through the pages to the back of the file. "But I appreciate the update."

Steve frowned at him. "Mr. Stark, what do you know that you're not telling us?”

“Any number of things,” Stark said, his voice flippant. He pulled the sealed envelope from the file, tossing the rest of the paperwork down on the table. “What's this?” he asked, turning it over in his hands. 

“My orders,” Steve said, staring straight ahead.

Stark glanced up at him, his eyebrows arched. “And I'm getting them, why?” he asked, even as he ripped the envelope open. 

“Because Miss Potts requested a police guard,” Steve said.

Stark frowned down at the page. “Miss Potts is out of her mind,” he said. “I don't need a guard.” He looked up. “I don't need a guard.”

“Someone tried to shoot you, Mr. Stark,” Steve said. 

“And what do you intend to do about it?” Stark asked him. “Throw yourself in front of the bullet?” He tossed the letter onto the pile, and turned back around, his hands on his hips, staring up at the ceiling. The massive lighting fixture had been halfway removed, chunks of the metal frame and wires trailing down towards the table. “I don't have time for this foolishness. Jarvis, where is-”

“She had a meeting this morning,” Jarvis said. “As of yet, she has not returned.”

“How convenient.” Stark scrubbed a hand over his face. “This is-” He stopped, taking a deep breath. “Right.” He turned back around. “Where is my-”

“DJ is down with Mrs. Parker, having lunch,” Jarvis said. “Your plans are beneath the table. Your gloves are in your back pocket.”

Stark stared at him, his mouth a thin line. “I wasn't going to ask about any of that,” he said.

“My apologies, sir,” Jarvis said, and Steve had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. “What were you going to ask about?”

“Never mind,” Stark said. 

“Of course, sir.”

Stark gave him a look, then leaned over to grab the large roll of paper. Muttering to himself, he spread it out over a nearby table, spreading them out as far as he could. Without thinking, Steve picked up a pool cue from the rack, using it to weigh down one end of the plans. Stark tossed back the rest of the coffee before using the empty cup to brace the other end. “Thank you,” he mumbled, already distracted. “Jarvis, can you hand me the-” His hand fumbled in mid-air, grabbing for something that wasn't there. “The- The thing.”

Jarvis was already moving, lifting one of the long lengths of wrought iron that were leaning against the wall next to the door. "Yes, sir."

"Not that one, I need-" Stark started, and Jarvis flipped the rod around, balancing it on his gloved palms. Tony glared at him. "Not that one."

"Of course, sir," Jarvis said. He didn't move.

Stark took it from him. "It's not this one."

"Of course, sir," Jarvis repeated. He gave Stark a slight smile as he collected Steve's bag and hat from the table. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“You're fired,” Stark muttered, turning back to the light fixture, the rod thrown easily over his shoulder. 

Jarvis nodded. “Of course, sir. I'll depart as soon as you've had your dinner. And your bath. And your-”

“Lying is beneath you, Jarvis.”

Smiling, Steve looked away. Desperate for something to focus on that wasn't the domestic squabble, his gaze caught on the plans Stark had spread out over the table. He stared down at the papers, his smile melting away. He flicked the top one up, and comparing it to the one below it. His eyes narrowed. "Huh."

He didn't realized he'd made a sound until Jarvis moved up next to him. "Is there a problem, sir?" he asked.

"No, not a problem, it's-" Steve braced his hand on the edge of the table. "There's an error."

"Really?"

Steve's head tipped to the side. "I-" His fingers twitched, and he let the page fall back into place. "Nothing major. A change in the scale, looks like the draftsman made a mistake when he picked up his work again after a break, or maybe on the next day. You've already-"

Steve looked up and found Stark standing directly across the table from him, his expression unreadable. "I already caught it and I'm compensating for it," Stark said. His head tipped to the side. "But then again, I'm used to catching mathematical errors."

Stark's eyes were brilliant, a gleaming, golden brown, like sunlight through a bottle of aged scotch, and just as intoxicating. Steve felt his face heat, and straightened up, his shoulders going back. "My apologies," he said, his voice tight. "I shouldn't have-" 

"How did you catch it?"

Steve blinked. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Stark's eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, an eyeroll without any of the effort. "I don't care," he said, cutting Steve off without a qualm. "Unless you're planning on selling the plans for my light fixture to my neighbors, I don't see how it really impacts anything that you looked at a stack of paper that I left out in the middle of a room in plain view of anyone who passed by." He leaned forward, his dusty fingers spread across the surface of the table. "But honestly, I didn't expect anyone who could actually-" He stopped. "You can read these. Well enough to catch a drafting error."

He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Steve nodded. "Yes, Mr. Stark."

Stark straightened up. "Huh."

Steve's chin came up. "Is that a problem, Mr. Stark?"

"Not a problem. Just unexpected." He rocked back on his heels, his arms crossed over his chest. Even when he was still, he gave the impression of being in motion. Like there was some sort of energy churning in him that was barely under control. "I wasn't aware that drafting was a skill taught by the police force."

"It isn't," Steve said. And he was tempted to leave it at that, but somehow, he doubted that Stark would be persuaded to let it drop. "I went to art school. Drafting might not be particularly exciting, but it's steady work."

Stark's eyebrows arched. "You... Went to art school?" he asked at last.

Steve struggled to keep a straight face. "I did," he said, his voice grave. And because Stark was still staring at him, his expression incredulous, Steve added, "Before the war."

"Ah." Stark's mouth twitched, something almost like a smile, but gone before it was fully formed. "The war changed things."

"The war changed a lot of things," Steve agreed. "Which is why I am here to provide a police detail, not fix-" He waved a hand towards the plans. "Other things."

Stark studied him, his eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded, his chin dropping in a sharp nod. "Fine," he said. He ducked his head, pulling his gloves back on. "Never let it be said that I didn't humor Miss Potts' horrible ideas." He turned back to the billiard table, staring up at the damaged light fixture. "Jarvis, find him a room."

"Of course, sir," Jarvis said. He glanced at Steve, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "If you'll follow me, Officer Rogers, I'll show you to a guest room."

Steve was already shaking his head. "No, that's..." He shifted his weight. "I'm not a guest, sir."

"Right." Stark reached for his plans. "So. That being said, what's your play?"

Steve paused. "Mr. Stark?"

Stark's head came up, those remarkable eyes sharp beneath the hard line of his black brows. "If you're refusing my offer, my very generous offer, might I add, of a room, then what is your plan?" His eyebrows arched. "Will you be propping yourself up in my front hall? Sleeping down at the trolley stop? Setting up a bivouac on my front lawn?"

Steve considered telling him, in no uncertain terms, what he could do with his very generous offer. Instead, he took a deep breath. "Mr. Stark, I don't think-"

"Because I think that the last option will encourage vagrants, and as much as I've always wanted my own personal Hooverville, I'm going to have to decline."

"Right," Steve said, the word forced from between gritted teeth. "Mr. Stark-"

"If I may, sir," Jarvis said, the words cutting smoothly through whatever Steve was about to say, and that was probably for the best. 

"No, you may not," Stark said, waving a hand through the air. "But you're going to."

"Of course, sir," Jarvis said. "Officer Rogers, there is a small room just next to the one where we've put young DJ. As that was once the nursery, there is a connecting room, designed to be occupied by the nanny. While it is a very nice room, it is not a guest room." He paused. "Mrs. Parker and I have already tidied it, with the idea of one of us occupying it, in case our young guest needed reassurance during the night."

He gave Steve a faint, warm smile. "We could, of course, make up a room for you in the servant's quarters. However, that would not be available to occupy immediately, there is a great deal of cleaning and moving of furniture that would be required before that would-"

"You should just give in," Stark said. He hopped back up onto the billiard table, the muscles of his shoulders flexing as he heaved himself up onto the top. "He missed his calling. A man this good at dishing out sustained guilt would've been perfectly suited to being a Catholic priest."

"Protestants just don't have the same flair, it's true," Jarvis mused. He smiled at Steve, and there was a hook there now, in the kindly warmth of his smile, in the sparkle that lurked in his eyes. "I shall be happy to begin making up a room in the servants quarters, if you'd truly be more comfortable there?"

Behind Jarvis's back, Stark turned around, his expression amused. "He would," he said. "Be happy. To do all that additional work. Moving furniture. Scrubbing floors and walls and ceilings. Airing out all the linens. Hanging new-"

Jarvis's eyes flicked upwards. "Sir, really, you're exaggerating."

"Waxing the floor," Stark continued, his hands braced on his narrow hips. His head tipped back, the long curve of his neck freckled with plaster dust. "Building chairs from scratch. Weaving a rug-"

Jarvis's lips twitched. "Sir. Really."

"Did you know he can blow glass?" Stark asked Steve, who didn't know if he should laugh or throw something directly at his head. "Do you want some new windows? He can-"

"I'll take the room," Steve said, mostly to make the confusing wave of words stop. He held up a hand. "Thank you, I'll..." He gave Jarvis a hopeless look. "Whatever is easiest for you, Mr. Jarvis."

Jarvis blinked at him. "With all due respect, Officer, I prefer to focus on whatever is most comfortable for you. After all-"

"You've already broken him, Jarvis," Stark said. "You can ease back a bit on the throttle." He turned back to his work, dismissing them both without a word. 

Steve stared up at him, trying his best not to notice the sleek, strong lines of his arms and back. "Mr. Stark, I'd like to take a look at the crime scene."

Stark stopped, casting a glance back over his shoulder in Steve's direction. “Your men have already been up there.”

“I'm aware,” Steve said.

“Do you think they missed something?” Stark asked, and it wasn't as sarcastic or cutting as Steve expected it to be. Just mildly curious.

“I think that it was late,” Steve said, choosing his words carefully. “And I'm sure you just wanted to get to bed. After all, you caught the perpetrator, and it was late.”

“I wanted everyone out of my house, is a bit closer to the truth,” Stark said. For a moment, he was silent, the toe of one boot bouncing against the top of the billiard table. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Poke around to your heart's content, Officer. Any locked doors, I expect you to respect, but other than that-” He waved a hand through the air. “Just stay out of the way.” 

Steve nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Stark waved him off. “Jarvis, as soon as Miss Potts gets home, do let her know that I'd like to speak to her, will you?”

Jarvis inclined his head. “Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” Stark leaned over, his hands braced on his hips. “Where's my crowbar?”

“DJ has it,” Jarvis said. 

“It's bigger than him,” Stark said.

“A fact which serves only to be a slight annoyance to the young man. He's quite determined. Very admirable.” To Steve, he said. “Come along, Officer. I'll show you to your room.”

Steve followed him out into the hall, doing his best to ignore the crashing sound behind them. “Huh,” he said. Jarvis glanced at him, his expression inquisitive. Steve shook his head. “Sorry, I just-”

He looked back at the billiard room. “I wasn't expecting him to say thank you.”

Jarvis smiled. “Occasionally, he is a credit to his upbringing. This way, please.”

*

"What do you think?"

"I think he's trouble. Think I told you that already." Clint heaved a bundle of linens into the cart. "In fact, I'm certain I told you that already." 

Natasha braced a hand on the top of the wall that surrounded the laundry yard. "It's possible. You say a lot of things." She stared down at the lawn, where the cop was working his way around the exterior of the house. "I don't pay much attention, to be honest." 

"Well, then, why do you ask?" Clint asked, bouncing up the stairs behind her. He squinted across the yard, watching the cop work his way around the edge of the house. He shook his head. "What is he doing?"

“Looking for crimes?” Natasha said, one shoulder rising and falling in a shrug. She hopped up, one hip braced on the top of the wall, her legs crossed at the ankles. “I mean, there's no shortage of those around.”

“Yeah, but most of them are beneficial,” Clint pointed out. He folded his arms on the wall, leaning into them. “And most of them, we don't want the police involved.”

“Yes, how odd that the police don't ask us if we want them to investigate our crimes,” Natasha mused.

“Yeah, it's fucking rude,” Clint said.

“What is he doing?”

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. “Are you eating jam straight from the jar?” she asked, mildly amused.

Bobbi shrugged, the spoon still tucked between her lips. “Finding bread seemed like too much trouble.” She set the jar down on the top of the wall and boosted herself up to sit next to Natasha, her long legs dangling down the other side. “What is he doing?” she repeated, digging the spoon back into the jar.

“Snooping,” Clint said. He opened his mouth.

“Huh.” Bobbi ate another spoonful of preserves. “Jarvis and Mrs. P are making up the room next to the nursery.” She looked at Natasha. “Jarvis says he's staying.”

“Interesting,” Natasha said. Clint made a sad noise and pointed at his still open mouth. Natasha struggled against a smile. “Feed the baby bird, will you?”

Bobbi gave Clint a look. “I don't see why I should, get your own jar,” she said, but she tucked the spoon between his lips anyway.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, wiping away the last of the jam from his lips with a swipe of his thumb. “What the hell would make Stark agree to that?”

“I love how you think that Tony is in charge of anything here,” Bobbi said, tapping him on the tip of his nose with the spoon.

“This one got close,” Natasha said. Her fingers flexed in her lap, and she forced them to be still. “Closer than he should have. Pepper is...” She scowled down at the officer, who was now walking along the path towards the garden, his head swiveling from side to side, down at the path and then back up, looking at the house. “Displeased.”

“She's not the only one,” Bobbi said. She gave the spoon a lick. “Rhodes was mad enough to spit bullets last night.”

Clint dipped a finger in the jam jar, ignoring Bobbi's attempts to fend him off. “Still. They've been mad for months. Hasn't changed a thing about how the boss has been handling it.”

“What is he doing?”

Natasha looked down. Bruce was hovering at the base of the wall, his shoulders almost up against the stone. He peered around a neatly trimmed bush, and backed up a little further, trying to stay out of sight. He glanced up at Natasha and Bobbi. “What, what is he doing?” he repeated, his voice tense.

“Snooping,” Bobbi said. She pulled one leg up, bracing her arm on her knee. “With the boss' permission, it seems.”

“You're kidding.” Bruce blinked up at them, his eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. “What-” His voice trailed away. “Why?”

“We're assuming it has something to do with the assassination attempts,” Natasha mused. 

“It might be that,” Clint said, grinning. He took the jam from Bobbi. “Also, he's gotta replace us.”

“Everyone got fired again, huh?” Bobbi asked with a grin.

“Third time this week,” Natasha said. She took the spoon away from Clint. “It's started to lose its sting.”

“I didn't get fired,” Bobbi pointed out.

“You, uh, you slept through the whole thing,” Bruce said.

“I was doing SCIENCE,” she told him, her nose in the air. 

“You were asleep under the greenhouse tables,” Natasha said. “You're lucky I didn't turn on the sprinkler system.

“Someone had to be the cavalry,” Bobbi said, unconcerned. “And I didn't get fired, so apparently I made the right choice.”

“Are you eating jam directly from the jar?” Bruce asked Clint.

“She started it,” Clint said, pointing at Bobbi, who grinned.

“I absolutely did, and you drank half a cup of soap yesterday.”

“Not on purpose,” Bruce said. He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “This could be a problem. We, we know that right?”

“We're trying to ignore that,” Clint told him.

“What's he doing now?” Happy's head poked out of the kitchen door. “Is he still out there?”

“He's still out there,” Natasha told him. “Going over the grounds with a fine tooth comb.”

“He's trouble, mark my words,” Happy said. He wandered over to stand next to Clint. “Hey, jam.”

“Get your own jar,” Clint said, but he handed it over anyway. “And yeah. He seems dedicated. To what, who knows? But something.”

Happy nodded. “Question we should be asking is, where was he last night?” he asked, shoveling a spoonful of jam into his mouth. “Cause he said he was out, covering for someone else on the beat, but he wasn't.”

Natasha frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

Happy shrugged. “Look, I know a man who's been places he shouldn't be, doing things he shouldn't be doing,” he said. “See it often enough around here. And I saw it last night. Where ever he was, he wasn't on the clock, and he was lying about it for a reason.”

Natasha nodded. “Now, isn't that interesting.”

“Uh, have we considered what we're going to do if this one is, uh, you know...” Bruce paused, then looked up at them. “Competent?”

Down at the edge of the garden, the cop was crouched at the gate, his fingers smoothing over the wall. Natasha watched as he rubbed his fingers together, his head coming up. She looked at Clint, who shrugged, taking the jam back from Happy. “Keep him out of the greenhouse,” he said, tipping the jar back, pouring the last of the jam into his mouth. “At all costs.”

Natasha looked up, and realized that the cop was staring right at them, his eyes narrowed against the afternoon sunlight. She nodded. “I think it's time to tell Coulson.”

*

“You always take me to the best places.”

Tony grinned down at Pepper, even as he swung her in a wide, wild circle. She spun out and came back in, one long copper curl having worked its way free of her careful coif to bounce against her cheek. She was flushed and laughing, her blue eyes bright. “How do you find these remarkable little gems, Mr. Stark?”

“I keep my finger on the pulse of this great city,” Tony said, his voice arch. They moved in perfect tandem, their feet coming perilously close to one another with every step. “All the best places, frequented by all the best people.”

“That explains so much.” Pepper sidestepped a workbench, and Tony's hands closed on her waist, lifting her up and over a spare piece of equipment before setting her feet back on the workshop floor. “I thought you just followed the music.”

“Picking the loudest room in the house is helpful,” Tony mused, swinging Pepper into an intricate step. “And our new bandleader likes a driving baseline.”

“He does, doesn't he?” Pepper fell backwards, and Tony caught her, amused as always by her easy trust. “I rather like his choices.”

Behind them, Rhodey had DJ on his shoulders, his big hands locked on DJ's small ones. DJ was howling with laughter, his heels digging into Rhodey's chest, his body canted forward to lean against the back of Rhodey's head. Despite that, Rhodey was laughing, too, spinning in circles until DJ was tipped to the side like a drunk who couldn't find his balance.

“Tell him no more Chick Webb,” Tony called to Rhodey, even as he set Pepper back on her feet. “My heart can't take it.”

“If you can't keep up, take a seat and let a more talented dancer have the floor,” Rhodey shot back. He executed a beautiful step, spinning in place as DJ spread his arms out like wings. “And if you can get him to put a Louis Armstrong album on, all the more power to you.”

Laughing, Tony wrapped an arm around Pepper's waist, lifting her up and off the floor. “A slow tune might not be the worst thing,” he pointed out, just as the door to the workshop opened.

"Sir, you have company," Jarvis announced, his voice brisk. Rogers slipped through, an expression of surprise washing over his face.

Tony didn't even slow down. Even if he'd wanted to, trying to stop Pepper mid-way through a song was dangerous, if not impossible. "Good afternoon, officer!" he said, his voice pitched to be heard above the rollicking beat of the music. "Are you done with your investigation?”

Rogers hovered in the doorway, as if he wasn't sure if he should risk stepping over the line that separated the grand, well ordered, almost staid house from this loud, chaotic space. "Am I interrupting?" he asked at last.

"You are," Tony said, with a grin. "So..." He spun Pepper out, her hand still cradled in his. “Talk fast or take a seat, Officer.”

The song reached a rising crescendo, and Rhodey swung DJ down to the ground. “Pick one with a red label this time,” he said with a grin, and DJ was off like a shot, scrambling across the workshop to the record player.

Tony leaned over, pressing a kiss to Pepper's knuckles. “I'm never dancing with you again,” he said, his breathing ragged. “You're a menace.”

She smirked down at him, her eyes dancing. “You say the sweetest things, Mr. Stark.” 

He straightened up. “That,” he said, his voice soft, his head tipping towards Rogers, who was staring at the room, his face curious, “is entirely your fault.”

Pepper braced a hand on his chest. “I love you,” she whispered back. “And I will not let you be killed without a fight.”

“I'm not going to be-”

“No. You're not. Because we're going to do everything possible to make sure you're not,” Pepper said. She glanced back at Rogers. “At the very least, maybe he'll make someone think twice about trying again.”

Tony shook his head. “I'm not-” he started, just as the music started up again, a bright, warm sweep of notes.

Pepper grinned at him. “Switch partners!” she said, turning on her heel and heading straight into Rhodey's arms. Laughing, he took her hands, letting her drag him into a dance.

“Hey, who's leading here?” he asked, and she smiled up at him.

“If you want the lead, better take it, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Good luck,” Tony called to him. “She's ruthless.”

“Damn right,” Pepper called back, and, laughing, let Rhodey pull her into a spin.

DJ came scrambling across the floor, ducking around them, and Tony moved to intercept. Jarvis got there first, catching DJ's hands, then lifted him straight up and off the ground. Laughing, DJ kicked at the air, coming down with his feet next to Jarvis's. "Set your toes on mine," Jarvis instructed. "I taught Master Stark to dance when he was not much bigger than you, I shall teach you as well." 

Grinning, DJ braced his feet on Jarvis', and Jarvis started to shuffle, from side to side, then front to back, ignoring the way DJ's feet scuffed the immaculate polish of his black shoes. "And... One, two, three, one, two three, one, two, three!" 

DJ stared down at his feet, then up at Jarvis. "One, two, three," he echoed, his body swaying in time with the precision of the beat.

Tony leaned back against the workbench, reaching for his coffee cup. "Jarvis, this is not a fox trot. You know that this is not a fox trot, don't you?"

"A solid grounding in the basics is necessary for any real comfort with any sort of dance," Jarvis said, smiling down at DJ. "We shall start at the beginning."

"You're making him fox trot to a song that is not-"

"Sir, if you have nothing useful to add to this educational process, perhaps it would be best if you focused on your own situation rather than ours," Jarvis said, his voice calm.

Tony grinned into his cup. "Well, never let it be said that I interrupted the educational process," he said.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony's eyes slid towards Rogers, one eyebrow arching. “Mmm?” he managed, not bothering to lower his cup.

Rogers scowled at him. “I have some questions for you, if you have a moment?”

Tony bit back a smile. Rogers was trying so hard for polite subservience, and failing so miserably. It wasn't nice, and it wasn't smart, but something about his frustration and disapproval just brought out the worst in Tony. The grouchier he got, the harder it was for Tony not to pull his proverbial pigtails. 

Which was not making this situation any better, or easier, but when had Tony ever cared about making things easy for himself?

“Sorry,” he said, his eyebrows arching. “This is swing time. Properly scheduled and very important to the smooth functioning of the household.” He reached out, patting Rogers lightly on the chest. “You understand, old sport.”

Rogers looked down at Tony's hand, then back up at him. “Mr. Stark-”

“Dance time!” Tony declared, waving him off. “And we've got half a record left so-”

The hand appeared as if from no where, directly in front of him, palm up, fingers curved in the slightest of invitation. Tony blinked down at it, and then looked up, to find Rogers standing there, hand extended, an eyebrow arched. “Then shall we?”

Tony stared at him. “Shall we what?” he asked at last, more to gain time and the upper hand than because he needed an answer.

Rogers' other eyebrow rose. “Shall we dance?” he asked. His chin was up, his jaw a sharp line of defiance. “In that you don't have a partner, and I'd like some answers.” His head tipped to the side, and a lock of his hair slipped down over his forehead. “Unless you aren't capable of talking and dancing at the same time?”

Tony resisted the almost overwhelming urge to reach up and smooth his hair back into place. He wondered if it felt as soft as it looked, and it was inappropriate, it was dangerous, but it was the least of what he'd caught himself wondering about Officer Rogers in the past few days.

The smart thing to do would be to politely excuse himself. The expected thing to do would be to simply decline. The nice thing to do would be to stop teasing Rogers and just answer the damn questions. What Tony wanted to do was to grab the man by the collar and find out if his lips tasted as good as they looked.

He split the difference, setting his hand in Rogers'. He had a moment to savor the expression of confusion and shock that slid over Rogers' face, and then he leaned in. “Officer?” he said, his voice a silken, husky purr. “When it's done right, your partner doesn't have the energy, the breath, or the spare brainpower to talk.”

Rogers' face was red now, a flush spreading over the fine bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones, extending all the way to the tips of his ears. But he soldiered on anyway, and God, Tony was starting to appreciate the way he just kept charging forward, singleminded and ruthless to his goal.

“This isn't the Savoy, Mr. Stark, and I'm a bit bigger than your usual partners,” Rogers said. But his fingers, warm and strong, wrapped around Tony's, pulling him in.

“That's quite the assumption you're making,” Tony said, as the song's tempo changed, smoothing out into something a bit more relaxed and easy. 

Despite that, it took about five steps to realize the obvious. “You don't know how to dance, do you?" Tony asked, his tone musing.

Rogers continued to move, stiff and more than a little awkward, his jaw set in a stubborn line. "I do all right for myself," he said, and it was such a transparent lie that Tony struggled not to laugh.

"You did not think this through at all, did you?" he asked, and the laughter was there, just beneath the surface, bubbling through every word. Rogers gave him a suspicious look, and Tony grinned at him. "You saw a way to call my bluff and you took it, and you did not really think that you'd have to do this, did you?"

"It's not usually this hard," Rogers said, so frustrated that Tony just ducked his head, biting his lip hard. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Perish the thought, Officer Rogers. I am merely wondering how you survived life in this city, let alone a war," Tony managed, his shoulders shaking. "Since your natural response to seeing a granade bounce across the landscape is apparently to think, 'well, I'll be damned if I let the other fella get to that before I do.'"

"It was ONE TIME," Rogers said, with a perfectly straight face, but there was a pronounced twinkle in his eye, and his feet were moving faster now, a little looser, a little more natural. As if he was relaxing into his own body, into the music. 

"And now you sound like Peter, and let me tell you, sounding like Peter?" Tony gave him a slight smile. "A bad idea."

"Peter seems like a logical and level headed boy," Rogers said, and Tony burst out laughing.

"Oh, God, does he have you fooled," Tony said. He executed a complicated piece of footwork, not because it was necessary, or even a good match for the music, but just to stymie Rogers. To his surprise, Rogers followed him this time, his own steps a bit off beat and a bit forced, but just as game.

“Not bad, flatfoot,” Tony said, and Rogers face relaxed, just for a second, a bright, boyish smile creasing his cheeks. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared, but for some reason, it felt like a victory anyway.

“You're easily impressed,” Rogers said. He met Tony's eyes, his gaze sharp. “I have some questions.”

“So you said,” Tony said. He caught Rogers' hand, dragging him in until they were almost chest to chest. Tony canted his head up, giving Rogers a flirtatious look. “So. Ask.”

Rogers' cheeks were pink, but his expression was almost amused. “There are three bullet holes in the walls of your office,” he said.

“Are there?” Tony asked, his tone musing.

“And another two that have been plastered over,” Rogers said.

Tony shrugged. “And least one of those has been there since my father's time, and another two were Natasha.”

Rogers blinked at him. “Natasha shot at you?”

“She shot in my direction, it was more a distraction than an actual murder attempt.” Rogers stared at him, and Tony smiled. “Don't worry. She apologized.” He paused. “Well, no, she didn't, actually, but I'm sure she meant to.”

Rogers' mouth opened, and closed. Tony could almost see him gather himself. “And the bomb damage down on the garden wall?”

Tony stumbled, and Rogers' hand shot out, steadying him with a firm grip. For an instant, they were both still, a little too close, a little off balance. Tony pulled back, pulling his arm free from Rogers' fingers. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “There was a little accident with a tiller a few years ago.” He took a step back, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Should've replaced the gate entirely, but it seemed like a waste.”

Rogers smiled, just a little. “A lot of shrapnel damage for a tiller accident,” he said, his voice soft.

Tony's fingers slid over the front of his shirt, digging into the fabric. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. “Really? I wouldn't know,” he said, with a smile. “Now. If you'll excuse me. I'm afraid I have something I need to do before dinner.”

He headed for the door, his pulse thudding in his ears. Behind him, Rogers said, “What am I going to find in the rest of the house, Mr. Stark?”

Tony didn't have an answer for him. And he was starting to suspect that was going to be a problem.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> My laptop died.
> 
> And my last backup was corrupted, so I lost some of my files. I managed to recover most of it from my last backup, but I had to recreate a... A bunch of this. So. Sorry.
> 
> I'm trying. 8)

"I can just eat in the kitchen," Steve said. “I'm fine with that. And it seems like it'll be easier than-” He paused, then gestured at himself. “All this.”

Jarvis frowned at him. "If you wish, sir," he said, still shifting through the hangers. He pulled out a sleek black jacket, his fingers brushing gently at the fabric. "It will make things difficult, however." He turned back to Steve. "After all, none of the staff can remain in the dining room while dinner is happening. With the current-” He stopped, his eyes darting towards DJ's room, then back to meet Steve's. “Problems, I'd hate to have Mr. Stark left alone."

Steve stared at him. "I know you're playing me," he said at last.

Jarvis blinked at him, his eyebrows arching. "Ah. Am I, sir?"

"You are," Steve said. It should not have been amusing, but somehow, it was. 

“Ah,” Jarvis repeated. He paused, his head tipped to the side. "Is it working?" 

"You know it is." Steve held out a hand. "Give me the jacket."

Jarvis gave him a bright smile. "Arms up, please," he said, and before Steve knew what was happening, the jacket was being settled over his shoulders. Jarvis took a step back, his mouth pursed. "Hmmmm. Too tight across the back."

“For something I'll be wearing one night and trying not to spill on?” Steve gave the sleeve a tug, trying to get it over his wrist, but it was a losing battle. "It's close enough.”

"Sir," Jarvis said, his voice disapproving. "Fashion should never be reduced to 'close enough.'"

Steve managed to get the jacket buttoned, ducking his head to hide his smile. "Jarvis, with me? 'Close enough' is about as fashionable as I'm likely to get."

"Hrumph," Jarvis said, giving Steve a sharp look. Steve struggled against a smile. "It will do. For tonight."

"What do you mean, for tonight?" Steve asked, but Jarvis was already heading for the door, several pieces of Steve's clothing draped over his arm. “Wait, where are you going with that, I'm not going to be-”

“Of course you won't, sir, but for as long as you are here, we need to keep up appearances, and this needs laundering,” Jarvis said, his voice arch. He looked back. “A proper dinner jacket is less a sacrifice and more a statement.”

“And what would that statement be?” Steve asked, as Jarvis 

“Ever evolving, sir, and might well be different tomorrow night.” Jarvis opened the connecting door, revealing DJ waiting on the other side. Jarvis smiled down at him. “A case in point.”

DJ bounced across the room, scrambling up over a chair and the small desk, hopping from there to the heavy chest at the foot of Steve's bed. From there, he let himself fall forward, landing facedown on the bed. In the silence that followed, DJ giggled into the quilt. 

"Hi," Steve said, amused. "Do we have a problem with the floor?"

DJ rolled over, blinking up at Steve. He then considered the floor for a long moment. Steve waited, his lips twitching, for him to come to a conclusion. Finally, DJ looked back up at him. "No," he stated.

"Wonderful." Steve reached out to ruffle his hair and felt the fabric of the jacket pull taut. He straightened up before he could split a seam. “Ready for dinner?”

DJ's face lit up. “Yes.”

“Yeah, me too.” Steve took a step back, pretending to consider DJ, who was dressed in a simple white shirt and dark pants, one of his suspenders sliding down his left arm. "Do you think maybe we should find you some shoes?" he asked.

DJ immediately tried to tuck his bare feet out of sight under the blankets. "No."

"Uh-huh," Steve said, scooping DJ up and setting him on the chest. "Well, then, want to help me polish mine?"

"I can do that, sir," Jarvis called from DJ's room, and Steve shook his head.

“I think I can safely say that both DJ and I can shine a shoe,” Steve said. Jarvis reappeared, DJ's shoes in his hands. “If there's a kit somewhere, I can-”

"STARK!"

The single, shouted word boomed through the house, and Steve moved without thinking, lunging for his holster. "DJ, stay here, stay still, Jarvis, stay with him, I'll find out-"

Jarvis reentered the room, his expression resigned. “It's quite all right, sir.” He set DJ's shoes down on the dressing table and headed for the hallway door. "He's all bark and no bite." Before Steve could stop him, he opened the door and leaned out. "Lord Odinson!” he called. “We've just replaced two of the windows, and I should prefer it if you do not make it necessary for us to replace any more."

The burst of laughter echoed up from the great hall, loud and long, undercut by the pounding of feet on the stairs and along the hall at a rapid pace. "Jarvis, my friend! How cruel, I come here, and there is no one! What am I to think, other than you have left the house deserted?"

"Or, perhaps, that I had a job to do," Jarvis said, his voice wry. He stepped back into the bedroom just in time to get out of the way of their new guest.

Steve looked up at him. It was a long way up.

The man was huge, towering over Jarvis, and almost twice as wide at the shoulder. His blond hair was tied back at the name of his neck, leaving strands trailing over his forehead and around his face, and his beautifully tailored suit was just as disordered, the shirt open at the neck and the jacket unbuttoned. But he as grinning, wide and real, his eyes dancing. "Ah!" He clapped Jarvis on the shoulder. "My friend, how I've missed you and your wit."

Jarvis staggered under the blow, but he was smiling as he straightened up. "So pleased to be of service, sir." He glanced at Steve. "Lord Odinson, may I present to you Officer Steve Rogers of the NYPD, and DJ, both of whom are our guests this week." He gestured in the direction of the new arrival. "Officer Rogers, Lord Thor Odinson of Norway."

"Though your New York is much to my liking as of late," Odinson said, and before Rogers could realize what was happening, Odinson had grabbed his hand, his grip strong and solid without being painful. He grinned, his face open and full of warmth. "How do you do, my friend?"

Steve found himself smiling back. "Well enough, my lord. You?"

Odinson waved him off. "Call me Thor; truth be told, one of the best things of this city is not being 'my lorded.'" He slapped Steve on the shoulder, with so much force that Steve swayed on his feet. But his attention had already passed on. “And this must be the young one.”

DJ's chin tipped up, his face curious, his legs drawn up against his chest. He leaned his chin on his knees. “Hello,” he said, the single word cautious and halting. But he met Thor's eyes without flinching, his toes digging into the quilt.

Thor smiled, even as he crouched down next to the bed. “Hello, little prince,” he said. “I brought you a welcome gift.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, coming up with a small, gleaming ball. It seemed to be made of metallic threads, each one catching the light as he rolled it across his massive palm. “A small thing, I know, but a common plaything from my home.”

DJ looked at Steve, who smiled at him. “Thank you, Thor,” he said. “Deej, would you like to play with it?”

DJ nodded, and Thor's face split in a grin. “Ah, I am most pleased that it meets with your approval.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it to DJ, who reached out, his fingers snatching it from mid-air. “My brother and I spent many a summer afternoon playing catch in the fields by our house.” He pushed himself to his feet. “It is one of my favorite memories.”

“I played baseball down in the Parade Grounds, in Brooklyn,” Steve said, as DJ rolled the ball between his palms, flicking it up into the air and catching it. “Thank you, my lord. That was kind of you.”

“Thor,” Thor repeated, slapping Steve on the back again. This time, Steve braced himself for it, managing to hold his ground. “Now, Jarvis, where is our host.”

“Dressing for dinner, sir, as should we all,” Jarvis told him. “If you would head down to the sitting room, then we can-”

"I'm here, I'm here.” Stark leaned into the bedroom, one hand braced on the doorframe. His hair was damp. Steve wasn't sure when his small bedroom had become public space, but he focused on trying to get his jacket buttoned. “Happy warned me that you had made it past the wall. Heads will roll, I assure you, but in the meantime, what are you doing here?”

Thor scooped him off the ground in a bear hug, pinning Stark's arms to his sides, a laugh booming out of him. "My friend!" he said, as Stark's feet pedaled desperately in mid-air. "Why did I have to read about your new son in the newspapers? You could not have told me?”

"My- What? No, it's not- Wait. And how could I have done that?” Stark wrenched a hand free and gave a shove at Thor's shoulder. “Dear God, put me down, you great lummox, I shall not be manhandled in my own house.”

“Yes, we save the manhandling for the grounds,” Jarvis said, utterly deadpan. He collected DJ's shoes, dusting them off with a flick of his fingers. “Or preferably off property.”

Laughing, Thor set Stark back on his feet. “There, there, no harm done,” he said, taking a step back. “And you ought to have contacted me. Important things, you ought to have told me.”

“Again.” Stark tugged his vest back into place, putting himself back into something approaching order with a couple of quick, easy gestures. “Last time I asked you how I might reach you, you pointed at the window and told me to yell my news at a passing bird.”

Thor frowned at him. “That would not work, not just any bird,” he said. He sounded deeply disapproving. “It is very important-”

“I refuse to talk to any birds, no matter what you-”

“Miss Van Dyne,” Jarvis announced from the door. 

“So here's where the party is.” The small, slim woman whipped her wrap off of her shoulders, handing it to Jarvis and brushing a kiss against his cheek at the same time. “Jarvis, darling, should I really be here?” She pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide in mock shock. “A bedroom full of eligible men. It's all just so shocking.”

“It's all right, there's an officer of the law here,” Stark said, hooking a thumb in Steve's direction. “Officer Rogers, Miss Van Dyne, one of our dinner companions for the evening.” 

Miss Van Dyne followed the gesture to meet Steve's eyes and all trace of humor died a rapid death. She stared at Steve, stone faced and disapproving. Steve gave a quick nod, his jaw tight. “Ma'am.”

She took a deep breath, her shoulders drawing up with the force of it. “That jacket!” It came out in a wail, sharp and pained, and Steve recoiled, rocking back a step. She turned to Jarvis. “How COULD you?”

He gave a slight, resigned nod. “It was the best we had, Miss Van Dyne.”

Steve looked down at himself, nonplussed. Stark tipped his head to the side. “I think it's quite nice. You know. For a loaner.” He tapped a finger against his lips, his eyes locked on Steve. Steve shifted his weight, embarrassed, and Stark nodded. “A bit tight, but many a man would do the same if he had shoulders like that.”

“Anthony Edward Stark, you do this to hurt me,” Miss Van Dyne said, stalking across the room. 

“I wasn't even here,” Stark told her, his hands spread wide. “And despite what you might think, Janet, things happen that have nothing at all to do with you.”

“Lies. Lies and slander, I am the center of your world.” She stopped in front of Steve, holding up an imperious hand. “Off with it.”

Steve took another step back, confusion sweeping over him. “Ma'am-”

“Don't you 'ma'am' me, if you take a deep breath, every seam in that thing is going to split wide open, and while that might be amusing to watch, I couldn't possibly bear to see such a nice piece of clothing so abused,” she said, her fingers wiggling in front of him. “Off. With it.”

Not sure how he'd gotten to this point in his life, Steve decided that giving up the jacket, which he'd never wanted to begin with, was the safest course of action. He wriggled free of it, trying to ignore the pained sounds she made. “It fit well enough,” he said, handing it over.

She took it from him. “It might as well have been a second skin and that shirt's not much better,” she said, frowning at his chest. “Jarvis!”

“I work with what I have, and what I have has been severely deficient as of late, since you have refused to continue outfitting the house,” Jarvis told her. He caught DJ under the arms, lifting him up onto the chest at the foot of the bed. He put DJ's shoes in his lap. “Your feet will be cold if you don't have shoes, young sir.”

DJ shook his head. “Won't,” he said, his voice hopeful.

“Shoes are not to be trusted,” Thor said. He was lying on the bed now, his hands folded behind his head. “Foul things. The boy shows sense.”

“Please don't encourage him,” Steve said, because DJ, sensing an ally, scrambled across the bed to sit next to Thor. “Going barefoot should be a last resort, not a primary plan.”

“Give them here,” Thor said, holding out a hand. “I'll dispose of them.”

“Who invited you?” Stark asked him, as DJ happily handed over the shoes. “In all seriousness, how did you-”

“I have come to meet your son, and he is as delightful a child as one could imagine,” Thor said. He held the shoes over his head, frowning at them. “These are horrible.”

“Perhaps a pair of house slippers?” Miss Van Dyne said, peering at the seams of Steve's borrowed jacket. She made a disappointed noise. “There's not enough to here for me to let out.”

“You're not letting out a jacket right now, we're twenty minutes from dinner,” Stark told her. “And Obie's coming, so we're starting on time or I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Jarvis, do you have a needle and thread and some shears?” Miss Van Dyne asked, ignoring him with a great deal of aplomb.

“No, Jan,” Stark said, picking up DJ's ball off of the floor and tossing it back to him.

“Here, you can wear mine,” Thor said. He sat up, and started to shrug out of the jacket.

Steve held up his hands, trying to fend him off. “No, please, it's-”

“That might work,” Miss Van Dyne said. She tossed Steve's jacket towards the dressing table with careless disdain.. “The vest will work for you and-”

“I'd say I've lost control of this situation,” Stark said to Jarvis, “but that would imply that I'd ever had control of the situation.”

“It is always for the best to acknowledge your limitations, sir,” Jarvis said. “Are we expecting anyone else for dinner?”

“We were barely expecting these people for dinner,” Stark told him. “We were expecting roughly half of these people.”

“I shall ask Chef to see what can be done to stretch the soup,” Jarvis said.

“You're a good man, Jarvis,” Stark said, amusement twitching the corners of his lips. He looked at Steve, one eyebrow arched. “She will not give up, just put the jacket on.”

Steve considered fighting it. But just like Stark, he figured that the best thing he could do was just give in. It was undignified, but so was running full tilt away from a woman half his size. He slipped into Thor's jacket. It was too big in the shoulders and loose at the waist, but it came far closer to fitting than he'd thought it would.

“It does you credit,” Thor said, leaning back on his elbows. 

“It'll do,” Miss Van Dyne said, her little pointed chin in the air. “Better than that trash.”

Stark looked at the discarded jacket. “Isn't that one of yours?” he asked, his hands in his pockets.

"How dare you. You'll be hearing from my lawyer, Mr. Stark. Now. Let me see-" She flipped up the hem of Steve's jacket, ducking under it, and Steve froze, his whole body going tense. She tugged at the material, one hand sliding up the length of his spine, her tiny hand firm through the thin fabric of his shirt. She frowned up at him. "Relax, you're ruining the lines."

“Uh-” Steve managed.

"A woman he's never met just came crashing into his bedroom, demanded that he take off his clothes, and is now manhandling him. You're lucky he's not running screaming into the night," Stark said. "Jan. Give the man some space, he didn't hire you as his tailor."

She took a step back, her head tipped up in Steve's direction. "I'm sorry, darling," she said, and Steve felt his face heat. She rested a hand on his chest. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Steve swallowed. "I can just eat in the kitchen, ma'am."

"Nonsense!" She threw a hand in the air. "Jarvis! Come-" She stopped, her head swinging from one side of the room to the other. She propped her hands on her narrow hips. "Where is Jarvis?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say he's downstairs. Handling dinner preparations for eight," Stark said, his voice sardonic. 

She blinked at him. "I need him."

Stark grinned, his face relaxed and amused. "Yes, well, I am sorry, but he's got a job to do if you'd like to eat."

"Fine." She flounced over to the bed, tossing herself down to sit next to Thor. "You fix it."

Stark stared at her. "Excuse me?"

She waved a hand at Steve. "You know how to pin a jacket, go ahead and-"

"No," he said, cutting her off. She pouted in his general direction, and Stark rolled his eyes. "I know that you think all men are weak to your charms, but I am not going to fall for that, so just-”

"Yes, you are, so fix the line of that coat or you shall never hear the end of it," she said, as DJ held his ball up to her. She smiled down at him. "Oh, that's lovely! Did Thor bring you candy as well?"

"Not before dinner," Thor said, grinning.

Miss Van Dyne leaned in. "That means he HAS candy," she explained in a stage whisper. "And as soon as dinner is over, we can start hounding him for it."

"Do not," Steve said, at the same moment that Stark said, "Can you not?" Steve's head snapped back towards Stark, who gave him a wry smile.

"She's trouble," Stark said. “A large amount of trouble in a very small package.”

"Fix his sleeves before I forget myself and start adjusting how his pants hang," Miss Van Dyne said, her voice dire, and Stark caught Steve's lapels, pulling him back around.

"Did I say trouble?" Stark drawled, tugging the jacket into place and smoothing the fabric down with a flick of his hands. "I meant an absolute nightmare of a dinner guest."

He was close, he was much too close, and Steve's face felt like it was on fire. Because Stark's hands were sliding over his shoulders, down the length of his arms. The touch was quick, efficient, impersonal. There was nothing lingering about it, nothing sexual. Jarvis had done almost the same thing, had been just as close. But this was different. This was absolutely different, because when Stark reached up, adjusting his collar, Steve could smell his cologne.

It smelled... Good. Stark smelled good. It was subtle, almost natural, a tangle of spices and scents that Steve had no words for. He didn't know what they were, but he knew he liked the way it smelled, liked the way that Stark smelled, and that was a dangerous line of thought.

"There." Stark stepped back, his dark eyes catching Steve's as he did. He smiled, and Steve shivered, not sure why his skin had broken out in goosebumps. "Straighten your cuffs, and you'll be ready for the ball."

Steve ducked his head down, focusing on his cufflinks, and trying to get his heartbeat back under control. "Luckily, that's not something I have to worry about," he said.

"Well, then, you'll at least satisfy your Fairy Godmother," Stark said, gesturing at Miss Van Dyne. 

"It will pass. Until I can put something better together for you," Miss Van Dyne said, and she had DJ's feet in her lap now, tickling his toes. He jerked them away, giggling, and then, after a moment, cautiously put them back. Grinning, Miss Van Dyne caught his feet in her hands. "Now, Jarvis must have some pins, and you can-"

"We are not putting pins in his jacket," Stark said, his voice stern. "It's close enough, and Jarvis has dinner for eight to-"

"Dinner for nine," Miss Van Dyne said, holding DJ's feet up. He tumbled backwards, still laughing. Thor leaned a hand on the bed, grinning down at them both. 

Stark stopped. "You, me, Obie, Thor, Rogers and DJ, Pepper and Rhodey," he said, counting them off on his fingers. "Eight."

Miss Van Dyne smiled down at DJ. "And Hank."

Stark pointed a finger at her. "No."

"Yes," she sing-songed, as DJ did a handstand, Miss Van Dyne still holding his feet. 

"No one invited Hank," Stark said.

"You invited me, and I have a plus one, my darling, you know I do," Miss Van Dyne said, letting DJ tumble onto the bed to bounce against Thor's side. "You invited me, thus, you invited Hank." She glanced at Steve. "Hank's my fiance," she explained. "And, despite his current temper tantrum, one of Tony's best friends."

"All of my friends are horrid," Stark said. "He'd better not be in the workshop, I'll have his-"

Thor slid off the bed and offered Miss Van Dyne a hand. She took it, stepping delicately down to the floor. "He's out back in the greenhouse with Bruce and Bobbi," she said. Thor bent over her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. She laughed. "Why, my Lord, such cheek!"

"Well, that's worse. Anyway. He can eat in the kitchen," Tony said. "We can't have an uneven number at the table."

"I can eat in the kitchen," Steve offered. "I'd be happy to-"

"I've just met you, and I didn't want you in my house, and you clearly don't like me, and I still enjoy your company more than Hank's," Stark said to him with a sharp, manic smile, and Steve's stomach flipped over. "You, at least, did not attempt to blow up my house."

Miss Van Dyne heaved an audible high. "Anthony, he did not-"

"Close enough," Stark said. "I want an even number of people at my table, Jan, and you made this mess, you can fix it."

Miss Van Dyne arched an eyebrow. "Fine."

Stark gave her a suspicious look. "Fine?"

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Fine."

He nodded. "Fine." He didn't sound very certain at all. He glanced at Steve, who wondered if he was looking for reassurance or just support. Either way, he was worried that Stark had turned to him to get it. "Fine. It's... Fine."

"It will be," Miss Van Dyne said. And her smile was frightening.

*

Tony studied the newest addition to the table. "This wasn't what I had in mind," he said.

"He does adhere to the dress code," Jarvis said.

"I blame you for this," Tony said, out of the corner of his mouth. "You. And only you."

Jarvis's eyebrows arched. "I understand, sir. Shall I have him removed?"

Tony braced a hand on the back of his chair, glaring across the table. Furbro, wearing a bowtie and a bored expression, groomed a paw. "If he sticks his head into the soup tureen..."

"DJ and I discussed the etiquette of the situation with him," Thor said. Tony gave him a look, and Thor grinned at him. "He has promised to be an ideal guest."

"Did he now?" Tony asked. He looked over at DJ, who was sitting in the chair next to the cat. "Is this true?"

DJ gave him a hopeful smile and a quick nod, and Tony pulled out his chair. "Right. This is my life now. Wonderful."

"I think he's a charming dinner companion," Pepper said, as Rhodey slid her chair in before taking his own seat. "He's likely quieter than most of the ones who show up at this table."

"I think that's her way of telling us we talk too much," Tony said to Rhodey.

"I don't think there's any 'we' involved here," Rhodey said, sitting down. "I think that's her way of telling you that you talk too much."

"I beg your pardon, I am a delight," Tony told him, as the others settled into place. Once everyone was seated, he took his own seat. His seat. Which was facing a cat across the dinner table, his line of sight taken up by a twitching pair of ears and golden eyes peeking over the edge of the table. "Hank, this is your fault."

"Hmm?" Hank looked in his direction, but his eyes were unfocused, his mind clearly somewhere else. "Yes. Of course."

Tony sighed. "Jan..."

"Now, now," she said, smiling. "We appreciate you having us for dinner, Tony. You always have the most interesting company.”

“And I don't even invite most of them,” Tony said, as Jarvis and Natasha appeared, plates held on serving trays. He gave them a smile. “But I do have a very efficient staff.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jarvis said, setting a plate of roast beef, roasted new potatoes, maple glazed carrots and julienned green beans. “And, if I might say, sir, a most creative chef.”

“I won't fire him. Today,” Tony agreed. He waited until everyone had been served, glasses of water and wine poured, baskets of steaming bread set along the table. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said. He paused beside DJ's chair. “Shall I cut your meat for you, young sir?” 

“God,” Tony said, reaching for his glass, nostalgia sweeping over him like a wave. “It's been a long time since you've had to do that, isn't it?”

“A few years, yes, sir,” Jarvis said.

“I can do it, thank you,” Rogers said to him. 

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis set a small saucer of chopped meat and gravy in front of Furbro, who sniffed delicately at it.

"You're a very lucky little boy," Obie said, slicing into his roast beef. He gave DJ a tight lipped smile. "In my day, children took their meals in the nursery until they could carry on a decent conversation and had some manners."

DJ studied him, dark eyes unblinking, then went back to tearing the crust off of his bread. Rogers finished with his plate, setting it back in front of him, but DJ ignored it.

"How boring your dinners must be," Thor said, cradling his wine glass in the palm of his hand. "Why do your people have children, if they merely place them in back rooms until they are adults?" He waved the glass through the air. “Why would you invite this fine boy here, only to deny him a seat at the table?”

Obie gave him a tight lipped smile. “Things must certainly be...” He paused, his teeth flashing in a smile. “Boisterous in your dining room.”

“A quiet meal is a failed meal,” Thor said, his voice firm, and Tony hid his smile behind his wine glass. “Besides.” Thor smiled at DJ. “He is a most polite child. Even though things must be very boring, when the adults talk above his head this way.”

“Yes, his manners are quite good, for one of his background,” Obie said. He looked up, giving Rogers a smile. “As are yours, officer.”

Rogers' eyes flicked up, then back down to his plate. “So kind o' you t' say so,” he said, a hint of a stage brogue twisting the words. “Right kind o' you, gov'ner.”

Tony choked on a mouthful of wine, and Rogers gave him a quick look, as if realizing too late that he'd gone too far. Tony grinned at him. “Ignore him, discussion ruins his digestion,” he said, setting his glass down.

“Yes, don't take it personally, darling,” Jan said, waving her fork. “Obie doesn't think any of us should be here. The table's full of women who've sullied themselves by engaging in trade, social climbing men dating above their station, and children.” She paused. “And a cat.”

“Now, Miss Van Dyne-” Obie started, but Thor leaned forward.

“Which am I?” he asked.

“It depends. Would you like to be a social climbing man dating above his station or an uppity career woman?” Jan asked him. “Or a cat?”

“Uppity career woman sounds like a great deal of trouble,” Thor mused. “I should like to date above my station.”

“Ooo, I know a few high status ladies who would be happy to lower themselves to your level,” Jan said. She fluttered her eyelashes. “All, all, AAAAAALL the way down.”

Rogers choked on his wine, and Tony grinned at him. The man was bright red, from the tips of his ears, all the way down his neck. For a bit of innuendo, it was overkill, but Tony almost wanted to see what would happen with some real dirty talk.

He suspected Rogers would spontaneously combust, and he felt a pang of grief that he'd never see it happen.

“Excellent,” Thor said, forking up the last of his potatoes. “I should make it worth their time.”

“Have things not worked out with Lady Sif, then?” Pepper asked.

He heaved a sigh. “My parents, and hers, have finally given up on that.” To Rogers, he added. “She is the most amazing woman, but we've known each other so long that we might as well be siblings. She punches harder than my actual brother, and has less cause to hold back.”

“Sounds like a few girls I know,” Rogers said. “I knew one who could break your jaw with a single swing.”

One of Thor's eyebrows arched. “I don't suppose she's single?” he asked.

“With all due respect, my lord, I don't know if you could handle her,” Rogers said. 

“Likely not, but I do enjoy the attempt,” Thor said.

Tony saluted him with his glass. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

“Oh, really?” Obie asked him. “Because I have some suggestions for you-”

“No.” Tony was already shaking his head. “No. Absolutely not. I'm sure that some day, in the far flung future, you'll wear me down and browbeat me into marrying some eligible daughter of some excellent family, but today will not be that day.” 

Obie shrugged. “It would do you well, Tony,” he said, his voice arch. “You need a stabilizing force. A good woman would help keep you on the straight and narrow.”

It hadn't worked on his father. Tony locked his jaw, keeping the words caught behind his teeth with a force of will. “I'm sure that some woman, somewhere, just shuddered in abject horror, and has no idea why,” he mused. “In that you just made marriage sound like the most unpleasant job posting.”

“It's the nature of things,” Obie told him. He glanced over at DJ, who was still chewing, slow and careful, on a bread crust. “Don't you want a few children of your own?”

Tony smiled at DJ, who smiled back, his face relaxing. “That's a cruel thing to wish on a child,” Tony said. “And you ought to be ashamed.”

“Are you ashamed?” Jan asked, because she'd ever even heard of shame, let alone experienced it. Her dark eyes wide, she fluttered her lashes at Obie. “Perhaps you ought to be.”

“Are you?” he shot back.

She considered that, then stole a potato off of Hank's plate. “Never,” she said, with a bright smile.

“Hank, no insult here, but the only two women I'd even consider marrying are sitting at this table, and Pepper already has too much to handle when it comes to me and my business.” Tony leaned his chin on one hand, ignoring the way that Obie scowled at him. “Mind if I borrow yours?”

“What?” Hank glanced up. All at once, he seemed to be aware that everyone was looking at him. “Oh. No?”

“Wonderful,” Tony said, as Jan started to laugh. “Obie, make the arrangements.”

Obie went back to his dinner. “You joke, but things'll come to a head sooner than you might imagine, Tony.”

“I think they already have.” Tony looked down at his almost untouched plate. “Who's ready for dessert?”

*

This bed was trying to swallow him.

Steve rolled over, trying to find a comfortable spot to rest. But no matter what angle he chose, what position, after a moment or two of stillness, he could feel the mattress give way under him. It was slow, insidious, the way it seemed to collapse out from under him, drawing him down until he was sure he was going to suffocate. Like it was going to swallow him whole.

The floor was looking more and more attractive. It might be hard, but at least it could be trusted.

Giving up, he sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. He resisted looking at the clock. However long he'd been lying here, it had been too long. And despite that, it was still far too early to get up. Steve considered his clothes, neatly folded on the chest at the foot of the bed. A quick patrol around the house might exhaust him to the point where sleep was possible, and even if it didn't, it would at least feel more productive than lying here, wondering why Stark bought mattresses filled with quicksand.

Steve shoved the blankets back and climbed out of bed. At this point, anything was more productive.

He checked on DJ first, opening the connecting door between their rooms as quietly as he could manage. The room was still and warm, and the curtains had been drawn back at the windows, letting moonlight spill across the floor. DJ was sound asleep, curled in a ball against the headboard, his legs drawn up against his chest, one arm wrapped tight around his pillow. His other hand was stretched out across the bed, his fingertips just brushing up against Furbro, sleeping in a furry pile next to his pillow. DJ didn't stir, even when the hinges of the door creaked, but the cat's head came up, one ear twitching.

Steve crept across the room, giving the cat an idle scratch on the head before he pulled DJ's blankets back up. DJ half rolled over, and the cat stood, stretched, and followed him, lying down against the small of his back. “Keep him warm, okay?” Steve whispered to Furbro, who reached out with one paw, swatting idly at his fingers. Laughing under his breath, Steve slipped back out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

The upper hall was silent and still, light filtering up from the main floor and through the windows on either end of the house. He paused, his hand sliding along the length of the banister, to look down into the great hall beneath him. There was something ghostly about it, when it was empty and dark, the intricate woodwork and artistic flourishes casting long shadows across the stone.

He wondered what it was like when it was full. Once, there must've been grand parties here, full of grand people. Maybe there still were. He allowed himself a wry smile. Not like he would've been on the guest list, and even in this city, some things still stayed secret. It wasn't hard to imagine the lines of cars snaking up the long, winding driveway, the people in fancy dress strolling across the marble floors and down the rolling green lawns.

Steve pushed himself away from the banister. They were ghosts of another age, but places like this must be full of them. Ghosts were different where he came from. They were thinner. Uglier. Angrier.

He shook off the thought, and headed down the hallway, his footsteps muffled on the carpet. Halfway to the stairs, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye, and stopped, turning towards the windows. From here, he had a full view of the back lawn, all the way down to the pond by the far end of the property. Now that he was looking, everything seemed still, no hint of movement, and no one in view. But something had moved. Something had... 

He stared down at the greenhouse, wondering if what he'd seen has just been the moonlight reflecting off of the panes. He braced a hand on the sill, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of it.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Steve jolted, his body pivoting hard on one heel. There, just at the head of the stairs, Miss Potts stood, a large ledger cradled in one arm, her other hand trailing lightly over the newel post. She smiled at Steve, her gleaming copper colored hair loose around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm-" Steve glanced over his shoulder towards the window, but the lawn was still now, the moonlight gleaming on the green expanse. Whatever he'd seen, if he'd seen anything at all, it was gone now. He took a deep breath, and turned back to Miss Potts. "I apologize. I'm a bit on edge."

Miss Potts smiled at him. "I think we all are," she said. She stepped onto the stairs. "Come on, it's warm down in the kitchen, and Clint always leaves a pot on."

Steve followed her, torn between following her down the back stairs or heading straight for the front door. "I was going to do a quick walk around the grounds," he said.

Miss Potts nodded. "Then you can leave through the backdoor, through the laundry yard," she said. The look she gave him was half scolding, half amused. "Or are you going to let me go down in the dark, empty kitchen all by myself?” She pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide in mock alarm. “What if someone's waiting down there?"

Steve's lips twitched. "In that case, maybe I should go first."

"Yes, but I know the way better than you, don't I?" With another puckish smile, she slipped through the door and lead the way down the narrow stairs to the kitchens, Steve following close behind.

Despite what Miss Potts had said, the kitchen was well lit, warm and smelling of coffee and yeasty dough. The counter was spread with stacks of ledgers and files, a tea pot resting beside the largest pile, steam curling from the spout. Steve glanced around. "I think you're safe," he said, making Miss Potts laugh.

"You don't know. There might be someone in the pantry. Will you check?" She set the ledger in her hands down next to her cup, and reached for the tea pot. "And bring out the basket of scones if your hands aren't occupied with invaders."

Steve caught himself smiling, even as he opened the pantry doors. It, like the rest of the kitchen, was safely deserted, but he did spot the napkin covered basket on a shelf next to the door. He picked it up. "This?" he asked, returning to the kitchen.

Miss Potts looked up from filling her cup. "Yes, thank you." She held up the tea pot. "Would you like a cup? Or some soup?"

Steve set the basket on the table, glancing over at the stove. A large stock pot was pushed to the rear of the range, a weight holding the lid in place. “Why is there soup?” he asked.

“Any number of reasons,” Miss Potts said, lifting the napkin off of the basket. “This household doesn't keep to conventional hours. There's always someone up, and likely as not, they're hungry. Clint doesn't like waste, so whatever odds and ends he has leftover from the day's meals, they'll end up in the soup pot.” She stirred her tea, giving the sugar bowl a considering glance. “And the deliveries start before dawn. Any number of drivers and couriers end up knocking on the back door, and few of them will turn down a meal.”

Curious despite himself, Steve moved the weight aside, lifting the lid. A gentle waft of warm steam came with it, scented with onion and black pepper. “Potato?” he asked, considering the creamy liquid inside. 

“That sounds likely,” Miss Potts said, breaking a scone apart with her fingers. She gave Steve a gamine smile. “There are bowls there to the right of the stove.”

Giving in with something close to grace, he ladled himself out a bowl, closing up the pot before he headed back to the counter. Miss Potts had returned to her ledgers, the pages open in front of her, but her eyes lingered on him as he took a seat. “That's a Stark pistol, isn't it?”

Steve started, glancing down at his holster. “Yes.” He looked back up. “Yes. It is.”

She pushed her tea cup aside. “May I see?”

His fingers closed around the grip, and for a moment, he paused, somehow reluctant to hand it over. But he pulled it free and set it on the counter between them. Miss Potts picked it up, and the way she handled it made it clear that it wasn't her first time with a gun in her hand. Her head tipped to the side. “My, this has seen action.” She gave him a quick, gamine smile. “You've taken good care of it, but this has been used. And often.”

Steve paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it back to the bowl. “A bit,” he admitted. “It's been with me for a while.”

She turned it over, her fingers cradling the barrel and the grip. “Army issue,” she said. She set it gently back on the counter, sliding it across to him. “That, I had expected. But I thought it might be military surplus, rather than an actual sidearm that had made it through the war.”

“The department issues Colts now,” Steve said, returning it to his holster. “But I know this one, and it's never failed me. It's....” Comforting. Which was a bad word to assign to a weapon, and he knew it. A gun could become a crutch, far too easily. He knew men whose first, last and only response was to pull the trigger, no matter what the situation, and he couldn't imagine anything worse.

“It's a good weapon,” he said, going back to his soup. It was silken and creamy in his mouth, warm and salty, richer than the potato soups he'd known as a boy, but somehow, still the same. He glanced up at Miss Potts. “Familiar.”

She smiled at him. “That one was Tony's design,” she said, nodding towards his holster. “I'm sure he'd be glad to know it's served you well.”

Steve focused his attention on his soup. “May I ask you a question?” he asked.

Miss Potts took a sip of her tea. “Of course. I might even answer it,” she said, her lips curving against the china.

He nodded. “That's fair.” He looked up at her. “StarkIndustries doesn't make weapons any longer, does it?”

She shook her head. “No. We don't.”

He wanted to ask why, but her eyes were shuttered now, blank and empty, her smile a polite mask, and instead, he asked, “What do you make?”

Miss Potts's hand flicked through the air as she returned to her ledgers. "Any number of things," she said, flipping through the pages. She made a notation, and reached for a different book, checking the dates on the spine before flipping it open to compare it to the one she was working in. "Engines. Machinery. Generators." Her pen flowed over the page, smooth and easy. "Medical equipment. Car parts." She glanced up. "Mostly, engines. Plane, truck, car, if it makes something move, we can build it. And we do."

Steve nodded. "Is there much of a market for that right now?" he asked, curiosity overwhelming him.

Miss Potts laughed, short and sharp. "No." Her head shook. "Not at all." She reached for her teacup. "We're working at limited production right now, but we're working." She considered Steve over the rim of the cup. "When the world began to fall apart, when it was clear that things were going to be bad, after the first sequence of crashes, Tony gave the employees a choice, to keep everyone at limited shifts, at limited pay, or lay people off.

"The employees chose the former. So everyone took a cut in pay, a cut in hours, but everyone held onto their jobs," Miss Potts said. Her fingertip tapped against the china, the nail clicking against the side, soft and rhythmic. "StarkIndustries is still producing, with trained, experienced, loyal employees."

She stopped, and Steve shifted in his seat. “If no one's buying, then-" His voice trailed away, the question implied rather than spoken.

"No one. For now, we're stockpiling." Miss Potts set her cup down with a click. "We're betting everything on the fact that Tony is right."

"About what?"

Her head tipped to the side. "Tony is a futurist," she said. "Do you know what that means?" Steve shook his head, and she smiled. "I think Tony made it up, actually." She stood, collecting her cup from the table. "A futurist is someone who attempts to determine what's coming. A person who studies the flow of information, of money, of power, and tries to accurately predict what lies ahead. In business, it means producing for what will be, not what is. It means positioning ourselves so that when things change, as things always do, we're the only one who can fill a need that no one else knows exists."

She looked back at him. “A need that no one else will see coming. If he's right, then that means we'll have a captive market. We'll be selling, months, perhaps even years, before anyone else.”

Steve dragged his spoon through his soup. “And if he's wrong?”

“Well.” She considered that, her eyes narrowed, a finger pressed to her lips. “I think we'll manage to keep the house.”

“Here you are.”

Both of them looked up to find Rhodes standing in the door of the kitchen. He was dressed casually, in pants and long sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows. He glanced at Steve, giving him a polite smile and nod, but his attention was clearly on Miss Potts. “It's late, Miss Potts.”

She nodded. “I know, I know, but-” Her head tipped back, a gentle smile sliding across her features. “Our work knows no hours, Mr. Rhodes.”

“No, but I'm driving you into the city at a very early hour tomorrow morning.” He crossed his arms over his chest, bracing one shoulder against the doorframe. “And despite what Mr. Stark might think, we both need sleep.”

“Well, to be fair to him,” Miss Potts said, starting to close her ledgers. “He doesn't think he needs sleep either. So he's just holding us to his own rather insane standards.”

Steve stood up, helping her pile the books up, and Miss Potts tried to wave him off. “Finish your soup,” she said. “Mr. Rhodes will be happy to help me bring everything up.”

“Oh, will I?” Rhodes pushed himself forward, striding across the kitchen to collect the books that she held out to him. He gave Steve a smile. “I guess I will.”

Steve smiled back, then sat down. He looked down at his bowl, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhodes smile at Miss Potts, and she smiled back, her face lit with it. Steve flicked the spoon against the side of his bowl. “Excuse me,” he said, giving the soup a stir. “It's none of my business. But-” He glanced up, catching their eyes. “I'm good at keeping my mouth shut, and even better at minding my own business. So, if you're pretending for my sake-” 

His chin dropped in a slight nod. “No point to that.”

They exchanged a look, Miss Potts' eyebrows arching, and Rhodes shrugged. The quick, nonverbal communication passed in a handful of gestures, two people used to reading each other with a single glance engaging in an in depth conversation.

“We're used to it,” Miss Potts said, after a moment.

Steve looked up. “I imagine so, and a crying shame it is, too,” he said. He smiled, just a little. “You shouldn't have to pretend here. This-” He waved a hand at the room. “This is your home, isn't it? I'm the interloper.” He shook his head. “No point in pretending for me.”

“It doesn't bother you,” Miss Potts said, and it wasn't really a question, but Steve answered it anyway.

“It's none of my business,” he said. 

“That's not the question.”

Steve nodded. “I suppose not. Then, no. It doesn't. “ He paused. “When I was a kid, a girl in my building, her parents disowned her. They just stopped acknowledging her as their daughter, 'cause she married a boy whose parents were the wrong sort of Irish-”

“The wrong sort of Irish?” Rhodes repeated.

“Protestants, not Catholics,” Steve clarified. “Irish. But not-” He shrugged. “Not our kind of Irish. And my Ma said, she said, what a shame it was, to lose a daughter on the very day that they should've gained a son.”

He scraped up the last of the soup, tipping the bowl to gather it together. “So it's none of my business, now is it, if you're-” He waved his spoon at them. “Together.”

“Married, actually,” Rhodes said, and Steve smiled.

“Congratulations,” he said. He stopped, his lips twitching. “Have you told Mr. Stark?”

“He was one of our witnesses, but we're still not quite sure he knows,” Miss Ports said, her eyes dancing. “He was...” She glanced at Rhodes. “Distracted.”

“Hungover,” Rhodes said, grinning. 

“I was trying to be diplomatic.”

“That's a waste of time,” he said.

“Well, considering that you were the reason for that hangover-”

“I don't remember asking him for a stag night,” Rhodes said. “I bear no responsibility for that.”

“Hmmm,” Miss Potts said, but she was smiling. 

Steve's spoon hit the bottom of the bowl, and he stood, collecting the empty china. “Well, I understand wanting to keep your secrets. I just wanted to say, I was raised to properly mind my business.” He gave them a slight smile. “And protect people I like.”

He crossed to the sink, turning the tap on and rinsing the bowl. Miss Potts broke the silence. “Officer?” He turned, and she was right behind him, her hand extended. “My friends call me Pepper.”

He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. He took her hand. “Steve.”

Her smile lit her face, and he had the idle thought that his Ma would've liked her. Would've liked her a lot. “Glad to meet you, Steve.”

Steve nodded. “Glad to meet you, Pepper.”

“I have no friends,” Rhodes announced, and Pepper elbowed him hard in the stomach. He skittered out of reach, laughing as he did. “It's true, I have-”

“Call him Rhodey, everyone who can tolerate him does,” Pepper said, and Rhodes brushed a kiss on top of her head. Her nose wrinkled up, her face flushing. “Get off, you.”

Laughing, Rhodey extended a hand to Steve, who shook it. “All seriousness, Steve. Go to bed. Things're quiet, and you don't need to lose sleep over it.”

Steve nodded. “I will, just-” He looked at the back door. “Just going to do a quick walk around the grounds. I thought...” He stopped. “I thought I saw something moving out by the greenhouse.”

Pepper and Rhodey exchanged a glance. “Probably just the cat,” Rhodey said, a little too quick. A little too smooth.

“Cat's upstairs with DJ,” Steve said.

“There's more than one stray in the neighborhood,” Pepper said. She gave him a smile. “Steve. Go back to bed.”

Steve considered her, and then Rhodey. “Is the greenhouse locked?” he asked.

“Bruce is careful to keep all the outbuildings locked,” Rhodey said. “Just in case.”

Steve nodded. Secrets on top of secrets. He looked back at the sink. “If you're sure.”

“We're sure,” Pepper said.

“Right,” Steve said. He turned off the tap. “I'll just have to take your word for that.”

*

“Are you going to spend all day down here?”

“Yes.” In the silence that followed, Tony looked up. Rogers was staring at him, his face unreadable. Tony arched an eyebrow at him. “Was that a trick question? Because you asked, and I answered, and you're doing something with your face there.” He gestured at Rogers with his screwdriver, rotating the tip in his direction. “I'm not sure what it is, but I suspect that it's disrespectful, so...”

Rogers sighed. “It's confusion, Mr. Stark. I'm confused.

“You should get used to that,” Tony told him, amused. He glanced in DJ's direction. “How're you doing there, kiddo?” DJ held up a chunk of machinery. “Excellent. That's neither on fire nor leaking any sort of acid, engineering is proceeding as scheduled.”

“Please tell me there's no acid-” Rogers started, and Tony leaned back in his seat. Tweaking the man had rapidly become one of his favorite games. 

“Only the mildest of solutions,” Tony told him. “Barely corrosive.”

Rogers sighed. “Please don't let him-”

Tony waved him off. “I promise I'll taste test anything he gets his hands on.” Rogers was trying not to smile. Tony wasn't sure how he knew that, but he did. He braced his hands on the workbench. "So if there's no problem, then-"

"The problem," Rogers said, his voice stern, "is that chances are, he's going to spend his entire working life in a small, windowless, poorly ventilated workroom. And even if that's not the case, he's going back to the city soon enough, so for the short amount of time he has access to, you know, sunlight?" He braced his hands on the other side of the workbench, his pose deliberately mirroring Tony's. "I think it would be awful nice for him to experience it."

Tony studied him. "You don't have sunlight in Manhattan?" he asked.

"It's different with grass and trees and clean air,” Rogers said. “But if it's easier for you to handle, then no.” He smiled. “We don't have sunlight in Manhattan. So why not experience it now?”

"Sunlight is overrated," Tony said, which was the wrong thing to say, he knew it even as he was saying it, even as the words slipped out of his mouth.

But Rogers just rolled his eyes and straightened up. "A lot of things are overrated, and I guess that does depend on who's doing the rating, doesn't it?" He smiled at DJ, who was playing idly with the clock innards "Want to go outside?"

DJ gave his clock a longing look, his fingers plucking a gear. His eyes darted from Tony to Rogers and back, his face strained. Tony shook his head, and reached for a rag. "Don't worry, my small assistant, I won't play with it while you're gone. I'll leave it right there, and you can come back to it when you're done frolicking through nature."

Rogers stared at him. "Frolicking?" he asked, and there was that smile again, the one he tried not to hide. But there was laughter in his voice, and creases in his cheeks when he tried to keep his mouth set in a frown. Tony grinned at him.

"What, you don't frolic?" he asked, wiping his hands on a rag. "You ought to give it a try. All the best people are.”

“I'm sure they are,” Rogers said. “Never going to find my name on a list of the 'best people,' though, so I think I'll leave that to the social set.”

“Well, if you're not frolicking, what is your plan?” Tony asked. He reached for a wrench. Maybe a little bit of physical labor would get his head back where it should be. He doubted it, though, Rogers was already taking up more space inside his brain than he should.

“Haven't got a plan,” Rogers said. “Other than getting him outside for a bit. Maybe take a walk around the grounds, or down to the lake.”

Tony nodded. “There used to be a swing on the old oak there, on the North shore,” he said. “I think it's long gone, though.” He reached for a pad of paper, drawing a few idle lines on it. It wouldn't be hard to put another one up, rope and a solid board, find a solid limb... He tapped the tip of his pencil against the page. “Do you know how to swim?” he asked DJ. DJ nodded, and Tony smiled. “Aren't you a clever little monkey?”

“Yes,” DJ said, and Tony burst out laughing. 

“He's clever, not modest,” Rogers said, reaching out to ruffle DJ's hair. “Too late for swimming, today, it's almost dinner. You've wasted all day tinkering, and now we've only got an hour or so before we have to get cleaned up and dress for dinner.”

DJ's face fell, and Tony gave him a rueful smile. “Had enough of that last night, I take it.” He looked down at the page, where a clear outline of a swing had emerged from the scribbled lines. “Right.” He pushed himself to his feet, and headed for the door, punching the call button before turning back to face them. “You should have a picnic.”

Rogers blinked. “A picnic.”

“Why not. Combines all the kid's favorite things, like eating and not having to put on decent clothes with all of your favorite things, like not being down here and not having to make small talk with people,” Tony pointed out.

“Also dressing for dinner,” Rogers said, his lips twitching.

“Also that,” Tony agreed. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” Rogers said, even as DJ scrambled down from his stool. Rogers caught him as he tried to slip by, heading for the door. “It's too much to set up right now-”

“What's to set up?” Tony asked. “Steal a sheet from the laundry room, ask that damn cook of ours to wrap a few sandwiches in butcher paper, grab some bottles of soda from the icebox. He can run around and you can, I don't know, what did my father do when we did this?” he scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to remember if his father had ever shown up for the picnics his mother had thrown on the back lawn from time to time. “Read the newspaper?” 

He looked at Rogers. “You can read the newspaper.”

“I... Could do that,” Rogers said, drawing the words out. “But-”

“Wonderful. The dailies are in the billiard room, a couple of locals and a few out-of-town ones, but I don't know how up to date they are. There's also the library upstairs,” he mused. “You know where that is, there are books, if you'd prefer a book.” He stopped. “Do you like books?”

“I like books,” Rogers said, one hand cupping his mouth.

“There you go,” Tony told him. “The kid likes books, you like books, books, sandwiches, soda, it's easy to do and no one has to find shoes.”

“Mr. Stark-”

The door to the workshop opened, and Tony swung around. “Jarvis!”

“Sir,” Jarvis replied, a faint hint of amusement in the single dry word. “Did you ring, sir?” 

“I did,” Tony said.

“Ah.” Jarvis gave the button a curious look. “It's been so long, I hadn't thought it worked any longer.”

“Sass does not become you, Jarvis,” Tony told him. “I repaired it last month.”

“An excellent use of your time, sir.”

“Apparently so, because here you are.” Tony waved a hand at DJ and Rogers. “The small goblin has not attempted to smuggle any of my tools out of the workshop today, and thus, should be rewarded.”

“How benevolent of you, sir,” Jarvis said. 

“It is, so I'm going to ignore that sarcasm. He gets to skip dinner and have a picnic outside instead.”

“A wonderful reward,” Jarvis said. He glanced at DJ, his face relaxing into a smile. “Come along then, young sir, and we'll begin preparations immediately.”

DJ slipped away from Rogers, darting over to catch Jarvis' hand. Rogers straightened up. “We don't want to cause trouble, Jarvis, we can just have a sandwich on the patio, if that's all right.”

“No trouble at all, sir,” Jarvis said, his voice calm. To DJ he added, “Shall we make lemonade?”

Tony watched them go, a strange, almost unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction curling through him. He turned back to the workbench and caught Rogers' eye. “There,” he said, reaching for his coffee cup. “All sorted.”

Rogers studied him, his face unreadable. “It's too late to start this,” he said.

Tony pointed his coffee cup in Rogers' direction. “You, sir, should not doubt Jarvis.”

*

Steve shouldn't have doubted Jarvis.

By the time dinner rolled around, he'd marshaled the entire household with what Steve was coming to recognize as his customary ruthless efficiency. While Clint and Natasha put the food together, Jarvis had sent Bruce and Steve across the rolling lawn with planks of wood and sawhorses balanced on their shoulders. He and May followed, carrying baskets of plates and wine glasses, thick white tablecloths cushioning the delicate crystal.

While the makeshift table was being set up beneath the spreading limbs of the ancient oak, Peter and DJ had darted back and forth, arms full of snowy linen napkins, rattling baskets of silverware and boxes of tin mugs. They carried small chairs and cushions, old quilts and, finally, a massive silver tub filled to the brim with chipped ice, dragged across the grass between them.

And once the stage was set, quilts spread on the ground and sheets fluttering in the breeze, they brought out the food. Clint lead the way, making the trip across the lawn half a dozen times, massive silver trays balanced on his shoulder or his hip, filled with platters of cold fried chicken, bowls of potato salad and cole slaw, baskets of crisp potato chips and jar after jar of pickles. There were tea sandwiches and and plates of sliced cheeses and meats, baskets of golden brown biscuits, and napkin-wrapped loaves of french bread, laid out one after another on the table. 

Bobbi and Natasha brought out pitchers of ice tea and lemonade, carafes of water and pots of coffee. Steve and Bruce hefted crates of soda, the glass bottles clattering together with every step. The bottles of wine they left to Rhodey and May, who carried them out of the cellar already wrapped in napkins to keep them cool.

The hardest part, as it turned out, was getting Stark out of the basement. It was Pepper who was sent into the depths of the house, finally emerging with her arm tucked securely through his. He seemed confused by the situation, blink up at the clear blue sky with a bemused expression. 

"I have work to do," he said to Pepper, who rolled her eyes, her lips curled in an affectionate smile.

"And it will still be there after you've eaten," Pepper told him, her voice crisp and firm. She slipped the notebook from his hand, holding it out of reach. "This was your idea, Tony.”

"This was my idea for other people, not me. I was not involved in these plans,” Stark pointed out. “All of my best ideas involve things for other people and not me.”

“You still do need to eat. Fuel for the fire of genius,” Pepper told him, tapping his notebook against her cheek.

“I'm being humored right now," Stark complained, as Pepper passed him off to Jarvis. He glared over his shoulder at her. "I know I'm being humored. Give me that."

Pepper handed the notebook to Rhodey, who tucked it into the pocket of his vest. "You can have it back when you're done with your dinner," Rhodey said. 

"This is unacceptable," Stark said, even as a plate was placed in his hands by May, overflowing with chicken and potato salad. He stood there, clutching it in both hands, as if he wasn't sure what to do with it. "Are you all-"

Pepper settled down on the well-worn quilt, tucking her legs under her and smoothing her skirts down around her knees. "Sit down and eat," she said, reaching for the crock of baked beans. "Natasha, did we bring out the chow-chow?"

Stark blinked down at his plate. "I don't-"

Jarvis hovered just over his shoulder, an array of plates balanced in his hands. "Biscuit, sir?" he asked, offering him the basket. 

"No," Stark told him. Then, "Do we have any honey?"

"Of course, we're not savages," Peter said, his nose in the air, and his aunt flicked him in the head with a napkin. 

"Manners," May said, her tone affectionate, and Peter grinned up at him. She shook her head. "Be useful and help DJ."

"Yes, ma'am." Peter folded his legs under him. "You want pickled green beans, or cole slaw, or some cheese?" he asked DJ.

DJ considered him, then the plates of food that surrounded him. "Yes," he said, his voice firm.

Laughing, Peter grabbed a jar of pickles. "Okay," he said. "Let's eat."

"I'm going to take mine inside," Stark said, and Natasha, kneeling on the other side of the quilt, poured wine into a tin cup. She held it up to him without even looking in his direction, and he took it, the movement conditioned. He juggled the things in his hands, trying to get a grip on it without dropping anything else. "Wonderful, one step above drinking straight out of the bottle, are we-"

Clint said something utterly nonsensical in what Steve had come to recognize as his fake French, even as he distributed deviled eggs, the golden centers dusted with a dull red spice. Natasha gave him a look as she handed Bruce a cup of wine. "Mr. Stark doesn't need an egg," she said.

"I need an egg," Stark said. He sounded almost comically insulted.

"Then best you sit down and clear some space on your plate for it," May said, her voice tart. She filled a plate with three huge pieces of chicken, pushing it into Steve's hands. "Would you like a sandwich? We have tuna, chicken, egg salad, cucumber-"

"I want an egg," Stark said, still caught somewhere between petulance and confusion.

Clint offered one to DJ, one eyebrow arched. "Oui?"

DJ considered it, his face suspicious. "You can try it," Peter said, around a mouthful of bread. He gestured at the plate with his crust. "You like eggs, right? It's pretty good. For an egg."

"I'll take it if you don't like it," Stark said, sinking down to the blanket. DJ peered at his plate, and Stark set it down, an affectionate smile creasing his cheeks. "Eat your own food."

"Wine?" Natasha offered Steve.

"No, thank you, I'm not-" He made a grab for his plate as Bobbi slipped it out of his hands. "I don't need-"

"Is this the last of the corn?" Bobbi asked Bruce, who put an ear of roasted corn, still steaming in its charred husk, onto Steve's plate. "Did we get another bushel, or-"

"We can, but, uh, it'll be tough," Bruce said. He peeled back the husk, considering the neat rows of golden kernels with a narrowed eye. "Late season. Always hit or miss." He smiled at Steve. "There's butter."

"I don't-" Steve said, as Rhodey handed him a jar.

“Pickled beets?” he asked with a grin.

“I'll take those,” Stark said, holding out a hand, and Rhodey held them out of reach.

“Wait your turn,” he said, grinning at Stark.

“I own the place, my turn is first,” Stark told him.

Grinning to himself, Steve turned his attention to his meal.

Steve had expected that they'd all drift away as soon as they'd finished eating, returning to their work and their routines. But no one did. One by one, they put their plates aside and just settled down with a cup of lemonade, lingering in the last of the afternoon sun. Even Stark had merely reclaimed his notebook from Pepper and settled back, his back braced against against the tree, his head bent over his work.

Pepper leaned against the tree next to him, her hair loose and her cheeks flushed as she sipped her wine. Rhodey settled in for a nap, his head in her lap, and Pepper chatted with Natasha and Bobbi, her fingers playing idly over his hair. Bobbi was working on her third flower crown of the afternoon, weaving together the stems of clover, mums, dandelions and daisies, the flowers plucked from the pile in Natasha's apron.

Next to them on the blankets, Clint and Happy were on their second or third serving of everything, locked in a battle of wills and stomachs that only made sense to the two of them. They were wearing the crowns that Bobbi had already finished, Clint's sitting slightly crooked on his head. Bruce, who'd managed to escape up until this point, peeled an apple, the knife sliding along the skin with slow precision. Furbro crouched nearby, his tail swishing as he watched the peel sway through the air as Bruce turned the apple in his hands. Every so often, he reached out with a lazy paw, batting at the end of the skin. 

Jarvis and May were perched on wicker chairs, a pot of tea on the tiny table between them. May had put her broad brimmed straw hat on Jarvis halfway through the meal, and to the delight of both DJ and Peter, he'd left it on, the ribbons tied neatly under his chin. Now, they watched the boys run across the lawn, their bare feet flying across the crisp, green grass as Peter tried to get a kite in the air. An occasional burst of wind swept over them, hard enough to send the leaves in the tree above them rattling, but not quite enough to keep the kite aloft.

Steve watched them over the top of his book, smiling to himself as Peter ducked under the flapping kite, guarding his head with his free arm. Just a few steps behind, DJ made a grab for the tail, his fingers managing to brush up against the string before it slipped out of reach again. Peter made a hard turn, playing out the string, and the kite went crashing to the lawn. DJ followed it, laughing as he collapsed onto the grass. 

"Are you planning on flying that thing at any point?" Stark asked, not looking up from his work. The tip of his pencil darted across the page, and Steve wondered what he was doing.

Peter braced his hands on his knees, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his breathing. "I'm TRYING," he said, his voice tinged with insult.

Stark's lips twitched. "Try harder," he said, and Steve hid his smile behind his book.

DJ plopped down on the blanket next to Stark, his arms wrapped around the battered frame of the kite,. He grinned at Stark, his cheeks pink, his hair a wild tangle of locks, and his feet stained green from the grass. "Fix it?" he asked.

Stark's pencil stilled against the page. "There's no fixing it," he said after a moment, going back to his calculations.

DJ flopped onto his back, holding the kite up over his head. He squinted at the sky through the bright paper of the kite, his fingers sliding along the seams. "Why not?" he asked at last, his head tipping in Stark's direction.

"It's not worth it," Stark said, at the same instant that Rhodey said, "Because he's lazy."

There was a moment of stillness. Rhodey never lifted his head from Pepper's lap. She grinned up at the sky, her expression amused. Stark stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he closed his notebook and set it down next to him, placing the pencil deliberately on top of it.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice polite.

Rhodey opened one eye. "You're lazy," he said, his voice laconic. He closed his eyes again, a smile curving his lips. "You're used to things working the first time, and if they don't, you toss 'em on the trash heap."

Stark leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "I do things right the first time," he said.

"What is this, a press release?" Rhodey said, and Steve choked on a laugh. Stark gave him a look, and Steve coughed into his fist, trying to pretend that he was still focused on his book. He didn't think Stark was falling for it, but it was worth a try. 

Rhodey shifted, his hands folded neatly on his flat stomach. "Stop being lazy. Fix the kid's kite."

Stark looked at DJ, who grinned up at him, the kite now balanced on his head like a particularly flat, wobbly hat. "It's no good," Stark told him, and before DJ's face could fall, he was rolling to his feet. "Let's go, Rhodey."

"Go? Go where?" Stark kicked him in the side of the knee, and Rhodey yelped. "Hey!"

"Up. You have opinions on my engineering?" Stark bent forward at his waist, his hands folded behind his back. He smirked down at Rhodey. "Then you can help me."

Rhodey considered him, his eyebrows arched. "Help you?"

"We will be replacing this trash-" Stark swept the kite off of DJ's head. "With something structurally sound."

"Hey!" Peter said, making a grab for the kite. Stark sidestepped him and gave the thing a toss. It floated across the grass, wobbling on its rapid downward path towards the ground. Peter frowned at it, then at Stark. "I did my best."

"And I'm not holding it against you, you'll notice I'm involving you in phase two, go get the paper," Stark said. Peter stared at him, and Stark made a shooing motion. "Paper. String. Glue. We're burning daylight here, Parker."

Laughing, Rhodey sat up. "You know, we can-"

"Oh, aren't we just full of opinions today?” Stark said. He clapped, sharp and quick. “Parker! Paper!”

“I'm going!” Peter said, throwing his hands in the air.

Pepper watched them go. “Darling, perhaps-”

Rhodey got to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants. “Yeah, yeah, I'll go keep an eye on them.”

“It's so nice to know that you're there to keep them on the straight and narrow,” Pepper said, sipping her lemonade.

Bobbi watched them go. “So. He's the responsible one?” she asked, her lips twitching.

Pepper sipped her lemonade. “Oh, God, no, he's far worse than Tony when he gets going.” She smiled. “But he does like to think of himself as the responsible one.”

“So, something's going to end up on fire,” Bobbi mused.

“They're making a kite, I'm sure nothing will end up on fire.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “Unless they try to strap an engine to it.”

“And we're not counting that out,” Bruce added. He popped a bit of apple into his mouth. “I'm telling you now. If I hear any explosions, uh, I'm heading to bed.”

DJ leaned against Steve's side, working his way under Steve's arm. "Hello there," Steve said, smiling down at him, and DJ peeked up at him, his eyes bright. Steve smoothed his hair away from his forehead. "Don't you want to help Peter with his kite?"

DJ peered at Steve's book, and Steve tipped it so he could see. “You can read with me,” he offered, “but my book's not a good one.”

“All books are good books,” May said, pouring Jarvis another cup of tea. “But some are more interesting for children. DJ, dear, would you like to go and get a book from the library?” She smiled at him. “Then perhaps Officer Rogers will read it to you.”

DJ's eyes went wide, and Steve grinned at him. “I can do that,” he said. “Want me to help you find a-” Before he could even finish the sentence, DJ was up and running towards the house. Steve leaned back, laughing under his breath. “I guess that's a no.”

“I don't think we need to worry about him not having gotten enough to eat,” Clint said around a mouthful of potato salad.

“Well, kids that age have a hollow limb or two,” Steve said.

“And he'll discover a little more room when it's time for dessert,” May said. She craned her neck, looking towards Steve's plate. “Did you get enough, dear?”

Steve gave a wry laugh. “Think I ate more in this meal than I have in the last month, ma'am.”

“And you might still be hungry,” Jarvis pointed out. He sipped his tea. “There's more, if you-”

“I couldn't eat another bite,” Steve said, holding up a hand. “Not if I want to be able to fit in my pants when this week is over.”

“I'll have some more,” Happy said, reaching for the platter of chicken. Clint got there before him, and Happy made a grab for him. “Hey, you little rat.”

“Too slow,” Clint said, sinking his teeth into a drumstick. He held the platter out of reach, ignoring the curses that Happy rained down on him. Steve watched, amused, as Clint braced a foot in the middle of Happy's chest, trying to hold him at bay.

“It must be so nice for the two of you to have other children around to play with,” Natasha said, moving a pitcher of iced tea out of the way before the two of them could topple it.

“Yeah, Peter's gettin' too mature for us,” Happy said, before the two of them crashed into the quilt. Jarvis took the chicken away from them. Neither of them seemed to notice.

DJ returned from the house with the others close behind him, his arms wrapped tight around a large, leatherbound book. He crashed down on the quilt next to Steve, holding it out with a grin. Steve took it from him. “What'd you find?” he asked, turning it over in his hands. It was a large anthology of fairy tales, each page illustrated with glorious color pictures. “Okay. Want to pick a story?”

“Yes,” DJ said, his voice firm, flipping the book open. With the utmost care, he started turning the pages, studying each one in turn.

"What nonsense are you reading him?" Stark asked, his arms full of thin wooden dowels and swathes of multicolored paper. He shoved some empty plates out of the way, clearing a space to work on the table.

Somehow, there was no sting in the words, no sense of disdain or mockery. Grinning, Steve watched as DJ turned the pages of the book. "If you're that interested, you can come sit down and listen to the story, Mr. Stark," he said, giving DJ time to study the picture. DJ's fingers traced over the contours of the knight on horseback, just barely making contact with the page. Steve waited until he was done, until he pulled his hand back and looked up at Steve, his expression expectant. "It's looks like it'll be a pretty good one."

"Nonsense about magic and dragons," Stark groused, as Peter popped up to slide a dowel out of his hands. "That's too heavy."

"It'll work!" Peter said, darting back to the table.

"Nonsense is nice sometimes," Steve said to Stark, who still hadn't moved. "Sure, fairy tales are all about knights and dragons and evil witches. But they're also about loyalty and bravery, about doing things that are frightening, because they're still the right thing to do. They're about being creative and smart and learning from your mistakes, and remembering what your parents told you, but finding out things your parents couldn't have dreamed of."

He tapped DJ on the tip of his nose. "Things aren't always about the things they seem to be about. Are they?"

He looked up to find Stark studying him, a faint smile on his lips. Steve smiled back. "You want to pick the story?" he asked, his tone polite.

Stark's smile stretched. "I shall leave the nonsense to you. I've got real world problems to solve."

"Your loss," Steve said, and to his surprise, Stark laughed at that, his eyes bright. Flushing a bit, Steve looked back down at the book. 

"Where were we?" he asked DJ. DJ reached out, tapping the beginning of the page. "Ah, right. Thank you." He took a deep breath and went back to the book, trying to focus on DJ's reaction rather than the man hovering just a few feet away. Despite what Stark had to say about their choice of entertainment, he didn't move away. Instead, he took up a post at the table, well within earshot.

Steve wondered if he did want to hear the story, or if he just hated to be left out.

DJ shifted against his side, his fingers flicking against the edge of the pages, and Steve turned his attention to the words. "Once upon a time," he said, "there was a little boy who wanted to be a knight."

One page became two, became ten, became twenty. In the waning, golden light of the afternoon, things took on a magical quality. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the others come and go, Rhodey and Stark grumbling at each other and Peter did all the work on their kite. Jarvis and May collected the dishes, piling them high in Happy's arms as Clint and Natasha brought out pies and apple dumplings, plates of turkish delight and fudge, and jugs of cider.

But Steve kept reading, almost as taken with the story as DJ was. About five pages from the end, Furbro popped up behind the book, one paw hooking on the spine and pulling it down. DJ laughed as Steve lay the book down, letting the cat pad across it and settle down for a nap. Steve grinned down at him. "And that's the end of the story, I suppose," he said.

DJ plucked at the corner of a page, trying to turn it without pushing Furbro aside. "No," he said. He looked up at Steve. "Ending?"

Steve dragged one leg up, bracing his arm on his knee. "I don't know," he admitted. DJ's face fell, and Steve smiled, just a little. "Well, it's your story. How do you think it ends?"

DJ blinked, slow and careful. "Ours," he said.

"Right. Our story." Steve let his head fall back, looking up at the lacy pattern of the leaves above him. "So the knight has traveled a long way. He's met many people, people he's helped, and people who've helped him."

Furbro reached out with one paw, playing idly with a long blade of grass. Steve straightened up. "And now he's at the end of that journey," he said. "Facing the dragon that's rampaged, unchecked, through his kingdom." On the table, a few of the dowels had been abandoned, almost within reach. Steve rolled to his feet, reaching for one. "And it's not his job. He's not really a knight, after all. Just a boy on a horse."

His fingers closed on the dowel, flipping it around to hold it like a sword in front of him. He shifted his weight. "But he has his sword, a sword he made himself, a sword that he's had to use already. He has his sword, and the shield his mother gave him."

DJ grabbed the discarded kite and held it up to Steve, his face alight. Laughing, Steve took it from him, his hand gripping the crossbar. With his 'sword' and 'shield,' he turned to face their 'dragon.' "He has the tools he's made, and the ones he's been gifted with. He has his courage, and he has something that must be done. No matter how much he doesn't want to do it."

Steve brought the kite up, tucking his body behind it, but the dowel hung down low at his side. "Because he's come a long way, and he's never seen the dragon, has he? All these things, all these probems, all blamed on the dragon, and he's seen the problems, but never the cause. Until he does. He finds the dragon, and it is monstrous and terrible and inhuman. It's there, right in front of him."

He went still. "So how does the story end?" Steve asked DJ. "What do you think?"

For a long, still moment, DJ studied him, his dark eyes bright. He looked down at Furbro. "It lives," he said at last, and Steve smiled.

"I think so, too," he said. He brought his hand up, the dowel slipping free of his fingers. It dropped, straight down, the tip impaling into the grass. "Maybe..." Steve stepped away from it, half turning towards DJ. "Maybe our almost-knight stays right where he is, maybe he stays there, and watches. Protects. Protects the world from the dragon."

DJ reached out, stroking Furbro's head. "Protects the dragon from the world," he said, and it was more words than he ever bothered to string together, and Steve grinned at him.

"And protects the dragon from the world," he agreed, his voice soft. "And that's-"

He pivoted on one heel, still holding his shield, and found himself face-to-face with Tony Stark.

Steve's stomach iced over, a sickening twist of humiliation slicing through him. For an instant he was frozen in place, trapped in his guise of a child playing dress-up, the kite still clutched in one hand, pinned by the realization that Stark must've seen the entire ridiculous thing. Stark had seen him swinging a stick at a cat, like the idiot that he was, hiding behind a damaged kite. And now he was standing there, one eyebrow arched in mocking consideration, his face amused.

They were all there, the whole household, and Steve didn't know how he'd forgotten that, how he'd let himself forget that everyone was watching him, everyone was there and judging him and at any moment, the laughter would start, and he braced himself for that, hating himself for caring what they thought. What Stark thought. Because it didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. 

It shouldn't matter. But it did.

Stark reached out, his hand closing on the dowel. He drew it with a flick of his wrist. "Kneel."

Steve blinked at him. It took him two tries to get a single word past the lump in his throat. "What?"

Stark looked up, his eyes meeting Steve's, clear and bright. "A protector of the kingdom deserves to be an actual knight," he said, swinging the dowel in a loose, easy figure eight. "In name as well as in heart." He smiled, and there was nothing cruel to it. "So kneel. And be knighted."

The burst of laughter caught him off-guard, slipping out before he could choke it back. Stark grinned at him, his expression smug, and Steve wished he could figure him out, could make him make sense. "Oh, are you a king now?" he asked, his voice wry.

“Everyone knows that I'm the king of New York.” Stark straightened his shoulders, his chin coming up, looking down the length of his nose at Steve. "Do you doubt it?" he asked, and there was laughter in his voice, just as bright and real as Steve's, and just as unexpected. 

"I don't-" Steve had barely gotten the words out before Natasha was there, throwing an old, ragged quilt around Stark's shoulders like a cape. And Bobbi was right behind her, slipping a crown of golden lilies and deep purple mums onto his head. Lacy white Queen Anne's lace filled the gaps between the petals, bright as stars against his dark hair.

He made for a patchwork king, but there was something regal in his bearing, something brilliant in his smile. Steve was no knight, and he was no king, but somehow, it didn't really matter.

He sank down to one knee, his elbow braced on his upthrust leg, his head bowing forward. "For your service to this kingdom of New York, for your bravery in the face of overwhelming danger and your efforts to defeat the greatest threat our kingdom has ever known-" He felt the gentle flick of the dowel against one shoulder, and the then other. "I dub the Sir Rogers," Stark said, and there was something unexpected in his voice, something Steve didn't quite understand. Steve glanced up, meeting his eyes, and Stark smiled. "Arise, Sir Rogers, and greet your adoring public."

He pushed himself to his feet, his face hot, and DJ was there, his hands coming up in a burst of joyous energy, flower petals tumbling from his fingers. Laughing, Steve tried to dodge them, but DJ wasn't the only one throwing them now, Peter and Natasha and Bobbi were behind him, all of them tossing petals into the air, so many that it was like a storm.

"All right, all right," Steve said, and Stark was laughing now, a hand over his head, trying to fend off the petals. Without thinking, Steve brought up the kite, holding it above their heads like an umbrella, like the shield he'd pretended it to be. "I think we've killed enough flowers for the day, don't you?"

"It's fall, they'll be dying anyway," Natasha said, her fingers dancing through the air, letting a trail of tiny white petals float through the air in their wake. She grinned. "Bobbi?”

Bobbi stepped up, a crown of white daisies and red flowers that Steve couldn't identify in her hands. “Daisies for loyal love and purity,” she said with a grin. “Gladiolus for faithfulness and honor.” She went on her toes, slipping it onto Steve's head. “Just right for a knight.”

It had a strange weight, for something so delicate. He brought his head up and felt the petals shift against his hair, against his forehead. He gave her an uneven smile. “Thank you,” he said. He reached up, his fingers brushing over a flower. “Thank you.”

Bobbi grinned at him. “It suits you,” she said, her eyes brilliant. 

“But most important,” Stark said, one hand holding his cape in place. “I want it known that I am, in fact, the king of kites.”

A ball of paper arced through the air, hitting him in the back of the head. Without looking, he pointed behind him. “I know that was you, Rhodes, and I accept your disrespect as a sign of your innate jealousy.”

“I'm going to break that 'sword' over your head,” Rhodey called, but he was laughing.

Peter, clad in his own flower crown, held up a massive red and yellow kite. “I think there's enough light to give this one last try,” he said, grinning. 

“King of Kites!” Stark declared, swinging his dowel wildly above his head.

Steve looked down at DJ. “Want to try?” He nodded, and Steve smiled, a strange sense of peace sweeping over him. He held out a hand for DJ to take. “Okay. Let's go.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, a model wing cradled in the curve of his fingers.  “I’m surprised,” he said, frowning up at the model.

“That I’d say that?” Obie said, tapping his pen against the blotter of Tony’s desk.

“That you think I take anything seriously,” Tony said, reaching for a pencil.  He dragged a pad of paper across the desk towards him, nearly upsetting Obie’s coffee cup.  “Pardon me,” he mumbled, scowling down at the page as Obie rescued his drink.

“I also get the feeling that I haven’t got your full attention right now,” Obie said, blotting at the spilled coffee with a napkin.

“Another thing you ought to be be used to,” Pepper said.  She moved another ledger onto the top of her stack. “Obie, I seem to be missing the latter half of 1930.”

“Well, so am I, but I drank quite a bit to accomplish that,” Obie said, with a wry smile.  He leaned over, moving his fingers along the spines of the ledgers.  “Which also might explain why I have no memory of the books for that year. You should have them?”

“I should, but I don’t,” she said.  “Tony-”

“I certainly do not have them,” he said, scribbling a few notes in the margins of his design.  “It’s amusing that you’d think anyone would trust me with them.”

“Yes, well, some of them are very thick, and you misplace your stepstool often enough,” Pepper pointed out.  With a faint sigh, she settled back in her chair, reaching for her tea cup. “You are a master of re-purposing things.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tony said.  He surged to his feet, ripping the sheet free of the pad of paper.  “Rhodey.”

Without looking up from his book, Rhodey took the page from him.  “We can’t do this,” he said.

“Would you like to look at it before you pass judgment?” Tony asked him, throwing a hand in the air.

“Not really, no.”  But Rhodey closed his book, tucking it under his arm and turning his attention to the wing design.  He blinked down at it, then at Tony. “Tony.”

“Yes,” Tony breathed, bracing his hands on the desk.

Rhodey held it out to him. “No.”

“Right, you’re right, definitely yes,” Tony said, taking the cup of coffee out of Obie’s hand and draining it in one long gulp.  “It’s brilliant.”

Obie stared down at his empty hand.  “Is there anything else you need?” he asked with a wry twist of his lips.  “My shoes, perhaps? Half my lunch?”

“It depends,” Tony said, handing him back the now useless cup.  “What’re you having?”

Laughing, Obie set the cup down.  “Tony.”

“I am hungry, did we eat?” Tony asked Rhodey.

“I ate,” Rhodey said. He was frowning down at the diagram now, his eyes narrowed.  

Tony waited for him to process. It was enough to plant the seed. “Did I eat?”

Rhodey studied him over the top of the page.  “Do you hear yourself?” he asked with a wry smile.

“I could eat,” Tony said.  He flopped back into his chair, his legs thrown out in front of him, his head falling back.  He frowned up at the ceiling. “I probably should eat.”

“It certainly can’t hurt.”  Obie stood. “Tony. You’re not taking this seriously.”

Tony waved him off.  “We’ve been through this.”

“Yes, we have, and yes, we will again.”  Obie leaned back against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest.  “Until I feel that you’re taking the appropriate precautions.”

Tony’s eyes fell shut.  “Right. Of course.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering when, exactly, he’d acquired this headache.  “And what do we consider appropriate precautions?”

“More guards, less visibility, and a general tightening of security,” Obie said immediately.

“No,” Tony said.  

Obie sighed.  “Tony-”

“No,” Tony repeated in a faint, amused sing-song of a tone.  He rolled to his feet.  “I’m not opening my house to a bunch of thugs who’ll get in the way, cause nothing but trouble, and probably make a year’s salary selling a bunch of rumors to the muckrakers.”

“I have good, loyal men already on the payroll,” Obie pointed out.  “Men I already know, who you already know, there’s no reason-”

“No,” Tony said, bored with the conversation now.  He made a grabbing motion at Rhodey, trying to reclaim his plans.  “Let me-”

“Burn that,” Pepper said out of the corner of her mouth.

“No, no,” Rhodey mumbled, frowning down at the page.  “He might be onto something here, if we can just-”

“Oh, God,” Pepper said, snatching the page from his fingers.  “Will you please-”

He tried to grab it back.  “Wait, give me-”

Obie took it from Pepper, folding the page neatly into fourths.  “Children,” he said, his voice stern, “I need you all to focus.”  He tucked the paper into the pocket of his vest. “Tony. Guards. I can have them here tonight and you'll never-”

“No,” Tony said.  “I don’t want them, and I don’t need them, and I won’t have them.”  He took a seat, leaning back with a sigh. “Why are we still discussing this?”

“Because I’m terrified that you’re going to end up with a bullet in your head,” Obie said, blunt about it, and everyone went still.

Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Obie…”

“You need to start thinking of someone other than yourself,” Obie said, stabbing a finger against the desktop.  “What do you think will happen if you end up injured, or, god forbid, dead?”

“The same thing that’s happening now,” Tony said. He shrugged. “For all intents and purposes, Pepper’s been running the company for years.”

“Yes, but your bullet ridden corpse might cause a loss of consumer confidence,” Pepper said, studying her ledger.  

“Right.”  Tony nodded.  “If I end up dead, drag my body down into the basement and tell everyone I’m drunk. It's logical and believable, you can make it work for at least a few months.”

Pepper struggled not to smile.  “I don’t think that burying you under the furnace is a sustainable solution, Tony.”

“Yes, but short term, it’s an excellent plan,” Tony pointed out.

“Tony,” Obie started, just as someone knocked on the door.

“Thank God.  If you’re not here to scold me, feel free to come in,” Tony called, rocking back in his chair.

The door opened, and Natasha slipped inside.  “Well, I hadn’t been planning to before, but now I’m having second thoughts,” she said as Rhodey choked on a laugh.  Her lips twitched. “Mr. Stane, your car has arrived.”

“Ah, thank you, dear.”  Obie stood,crossing to the coat rack to reclaim his jacket.  He shrugged it on. “This discussion isn’t over, Tony.”

“Since I’m not budging on this, and you can’t make me, I’m fairly certain that it is,” Tony said.  He stood. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll pretend to consider your position of the matter.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Obie said, with a fond smile.  He buttoned up his coat and stabbed a finger in Tony’s direction.  “I’m responsible for you, you know that. I promised your father-”

“That you’d take care of me, no matter what,” Tony said.  “I know, Obie, I know, but I think the old man has to acknowledge that there’s only so many years you can spend at that job.”

“You clearly never signed one of Howard’s contracts, or you’d know that is absolutely not true,” Obie said.  He took his hat from Natasha. “Thank you, darling.” He pointed at Tony. “Guards.”

“No,” Tony said. 

“Tony-”

“Enjoy your meeting, Obie,” Tony said. “I'll be sitting here, thinking very hard on your words.”

Obie shook his head. “Tony.”

“Like a hermit, lost in prayer,” Tony said. “Sackcloth and ashes. There might even be fasting.”

 

“Let us know when you get to the vow of silence,” Rhodey said, and Tony gave him a look. Rhodey grinned at him, utterly unconcerned. “It would make a nice change.”

“I'll remember this betrayal,” Tony told him.

“I'll talk to you about this tomorrow,” Obie said, and before Tony could get another last word in, he was out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

“Thank you for not stabbing him,” Tony said to Natasha.

“The only thing that really stops me is the knowledge that I’d have to figure out how to get the blood out of the carpet,” Natasha said.  Tony was pretty sure she wasn’t joking. “Still. I expect that your appreciation for my restraint will be reflected in my Christmas bonus.”

“I think I can afford that,” Tony said.  “I’ll check the budget.”

“You do know that the only difference between Natasha and every other woman who has to work with Mr. Stane is that she has access to more knives, don’t you?” Pepper asked.

“I’ve told you, you can do an amazing amount of damage with a simple pen,” Natasha told her.  She reached for a ballpoint on the desk. “Here, let me show you, just-”

“Can you not make her more dangerous than she already is?” Rhodey asked her.

“We’ll talk after dinner,” Pepper said in a stage whisper.  Laughing, Natasha handed her the pen back.

“Speaking of dangerous, where is our guest?” Tony asked, rolling his head back towards Natasha.  “Do I need to call out the dogs?”

“The small guest or the big one?” she asked.

“I’m assuming you’ve got the little one under control,” Tony said.

“Excuse me, sir,” Natasha said, one eyebrow arching, “but we have both of them under control.”

Tony held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Begging your pardon, I would never dream to imply that you didn’t.”  He flopped back on the couch, throwing one leg over the arm. “Where’s the urchin?”

“Again, you need to be specific about-”

“DJ,” Tony said, ignoring the way that Pepper was giggling.  

“He’s downstairs in the kitchen,” Natasha said.  “Helping them prep the last of the cherries for preserving and pies.”

Tony frowned.  “He was doing that three hours ago.”

“And he’s still doing it,” Natasha said.  “He seems to enjoy the task, we’ve offered him something different to do several times,  but he seems content with what he’s doing.”

“I’m sure that the steady diet of praise and pastries he’s getting from Mrs. Parker and the chef makes it a bit more palatable,” Rhodey mused, paging through a massive book.  

“It doesn’t hurt,” Natasha agreed.  

“And we’re going for a swim before lunch,” Pepper said.  “So that’ll be a natural stopping point.”

“That’s nice of you,” Tony said.

She pointed her pencil in his direction, her head still bent over her ledger.  “That’s nice of you,” she said.

Tony stared at her, his mouth pursed.  “Just for the record, I never agreed to this.”

“And when has that ever stopped her?” Rhodey asked.

Tony fished his pocket watch out of his vest pocket, frowning down at it.  “Never,” he said. “And I think I have a meeting-”

“I set all your meetings, so I can be fairly confident in saying no, you don’t,” Pepper said with a sugary sweet smile.  “Eleven. Be ready, or I’ll have Happy toss you in, suit and all.”

He put his watch back in his pocket.  “I like this suit,” Tony said.

“Then find a bathing costume,” she said.  “It’s as easy as that, Mr. Stark.”

“Right, you do make it seem quite simple,” Tony said.  His eyes rolled in Natasha’s direction. “And the larger of our troublemakers?”

“Patrolling the grounds again,” she said.  She paused, one eyebrow arching. “He’s quite dedicated to his job.”

“It’s a confusing concept, to be sure.” Tony grinned, amused despite himself.  “Has he taken a brick to any part of the green house yet?”

“No, but he’s checked the door every single time he’s in its general vicinity,” Natasha said.  “He’s rattled that doorknob about once an hour for the past two days.”

“Man needs to sleep,” Tony said.  He rolled to his feet. 

Rhodey snorted.  “That’s rich, coming from you.” He snapped his book closed, returning it to the shelf and reaching for another. “When’s the last time that you’ve gotten more than five or six hours in a row?”

“Possibly before the war,” Tony said.  To Natasha, he added, “Keep him occupied.”

“We’ll do our best,” she said.  “But he’s making Bruce tense.”

“Never a good idea.”  He took the book out of Rhodey’s hands, ignoring his objections.  “See if he swims.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rose, but whatever she was thinking, she didn’t say it.  “Of course. Anything else?”

He peered at her over the top of the book.  “Do I have a meeting?”

“You have a meeting,” she said.  “I’ll send him a message, see if he can reschedule.”

“We both know how that’ll go,” Tony said, biting back a smile.  “But give it a try anyway.”

“I shall do my utmost,” she said.  “For the sake of my bonus.” With a quick nod, she slipped out of the library, pulling the door shut behind her.

Tony could feel Pepper’s glare.  He did his best not to acknowledge it.  Or even look in her direction. “Let’s get the-”

“So we do have a meeting that I didn’t set up,” Pepper said, her voice flat.

“We don’t have anything,” Tony said, because there was zero chance that this was going to go his way. “I have a meeting.”

“With who?” Pepper said, her voice sharp.

“With the Agent,” Tony said.  Rhodey groaned, and Tony ignored him.  Instead, he glanced towards Pepper, who was staring at him, her mouth a flat line.  “I know.”

“You say that, but I’m pretty sure that you don’t,” she said.

“She’s upset with me,” Tony said to Rhodey.

“Uh-huh.” Rhodey took his book back, flipping it back around in his hands.  “You should be used to that by now.”

“I’ve done my best to build up an immunity, but she manages to make every time a new and ever more terrifying experience,” Tony said.  “I think it’s because-”

“If you bring Washington down on us right now, I will show you the true meaning of terror,” Pepper said, her voice dire.  

Tony gave her a wary look.  “I’m going to need you to remove all her writing implements,” he said to Rhodey.

“If you think I’m getting between you and her right now, you’re out of your mind,” Rhodey said.  “I’m your chief designer, not your bodyguard.”

“I should get one of those,” Tony mused.   

Pepper stood, her hands braced on her desk.  “You are playing with fire right now, you know that, don’t you?  Between Rogers and now Washington-”

“You were the one to bring Rogers into this,” Tony pointed out.  “I neither asked for, nor approved-”

“Perhaps not, but you certainly are enjoying flirting with the poor man,” Pepper said.

Tony opened his mouth.  Closed it. “I’d argue that point, but right now, Pep, you should be pleased I’m not climbing him like a tree.”

She stared at him, her expression torn between amusement and dismay.  “Thank you so much for your restraint, Mr. Stark.”

“See?  Was that so difficult?” Tony asked her.  He leaned back against his desk, his hands braced on either side of his hips.  “It’s not that I’m flirting with him-”

“You absolutely are flirting with him,” Pepper said.

Tony ignored her.  “It’s just that he’s so much fun to fluster.”  He grinned. “I’ve never known a grown man to blush that much, or that easily.”

“I need you to stop tormenting him,” Pepper said.

“His ears go pink at the slightest provocation,” Tony mused.  His head tipped to the side, his fertile brain coming up with a few rather racy images about just how he could make the good officer turn beet red.  “How far down do you suppose it goes? Because his neck gets all-”

“Stop it,” Pepper said, her lips twitching.  Tony gave her an innocent look. “Tony. You’re not a cruel person.”

“Oh, that’s patently untrue,” Tony said.

“You’re cruel when you have reason,” Rhodey said.  “You don’t have any reason here, you’re just tormenting the man, and there’s no reason for it.”

“He keeps reacting,” Tony said.  “That’s, that’s all the reason I need.”

“Tony-” Pepper started, just as another brisk knock at the door brought their heads around.

“Come in,” Tony called, glad for the interruption.

The door opened, and Jarvis stepped aside, letting DJ come bouncing past him.  “We are ready for swimming time,” Jarvis said, his voice calm.

“Really,” Tony said, staring down at DJ.  DJ grinned up at him, his lips and chin stained red with cherry juice.  “I see we’ve had an unfortunate accident.”

DJ held up both of his hands, which were just as red.  “Cherries!” he said, sounding proud.

“Cherries, or you’ve gone on a killing spree,” Tony said, smiling down at him.  “How many did you eat, my little scullery rat?”

“Some,” DJ said, with all due gravity.

Tony looked at Jarvis.  “It was, in fact, some cherries,” Jarvis said.

“Ah, ‘some’ is now a concrete term of measurement, I see,” Tony said, offering his hands to DJ.  DJ grabbed them, his grip firm. “Well, then. Is it time for ‘some’ swimming?”

“Yes!” DJ leaned back, swaying on his feet and letting Tony support his weight.

“Good.”  Tony smiled at him, trying to ignore the way his chest ached.  “Let’s go.”

*

This was a horrible idea.

Steve perched uneasily on the edge of a wicker chair, not quite sure how he’d ended up here. Like with everything else that had happened to him this week, he'd had a clear plan and a strong sense of determination. And just like with everything else, it had meant absolutely nothing. He'd been swept out by a rip tide before, the sand beneath his feet dissolving as he found himself pulled out to see, far over his head. Struggling was useless, against the might of the ocean, and the tide didn't care if you lived or died.

Steve was starting to suspect Stark Manor had it's own hidden currents, just below the calm surface, and all of them were dangerous.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

Steve jolted, his head swinging around.  Rhodey was floating at the edge of the pool, his arms braced on the tile.  He smiled at Steve. “Tony keeps a wide variety of swimming costumes, just for guests, bet you can find one that fits you.”

Steve shifted his weight, the chair creaking under him.  “No. Thank you, but-” He looked across the pool to where DJ was sitting on the stairs, tracing the patterns on the tiles with his feet.  Nearby, Pepper swam back and forth, following an easy arc within easy reach of DJ should something happen. Not that Steve thought anything would; the kid could swim. 

And so could he, but this was no Coney Island beach, crowded with families with their old sheets spread on the sand and their meager lunches carried in old shoe boxes to protect them from the sun.  Instead, the pool stretched out before him, the water warm and clean, smelling faintly of chlorine. Jazz music echoed in the cavernous space, amplified by the water and the massive arched ceiling, massive windows opened wide to let in the light.

“Steve?”

Steve glanced back down at Rhodey. “Thank you, but, no, I’m-” He smiled.  “Not much of a swimmer.”

Rhodey smiled.  “During the middle of winter, when the snow’s piling up on the skylights and day lasts about three and a half minutes before it’s dark again?  Let me tell you, during January?” His head tipped back his eyes falling shut. “It’s something else.” 

Steve smiled back.  “I bet it is.”

“Who's ready for a swim?”

“We're already swimming, Tony,” Rhodey said, not bothering to open his eyes. “You're the one who's late.”

“I can't be late, it's my pool,” Stark said, and, trying not to laugh, Steve turned in his seat to face him.

He immediately regretted it.

Stark was wearing some sort of silk dressing gown, tied loosely at his waist, the hem fluttering around his thighs as he walked. His legs were bare beneath the edge of the robe, and Steve felt his face heat. Before he could turn away, Stark caught his eye. “Are you not coming in?”

Steve cleared his throat. “No,” he said. He sounded disapproving. That was fine. He was all right with that, he should be disapproving. That was a lot of skin on display. Even for a swimming costume.

Stark paused in the act of untying his robe. “Can you not swim?” he asked.

“I can, I'm just not-”

That was as far as he got before Stark shrugged off his robe, the silk sliding off of his shoulders and down the length of his muscular arms, and Steve swallowed his tongue. Clad only in a small, mid-thigh length pair of crimson red shorts, Stark tossed his robe at the nearest unoccupied chair. 

“What are you wearing?” Rhodey asked, and he was laughing, there was laughter in his voice, as if he wasn't seeing the same thing that Steve was, as if Stark wasn't standing there, all but naked.

“Like it?” Stark gave him a wide, glittering smile. He reached up to push his hair back from his forehead, and Steve lost his breath. “Its's all the rage in Europe.”

“We're not in Europe and that's indecent,” Rhodey said. He splashed water at Stark's feet, and Stark took a hopping step to the side, avoiding the water as it splashed along the tile.

“Yes, but we'll catch up eventually.” He raised his voice. “Pepper, you like it, don't you?”

“I am refusing to look directly at you,” Pepper called, still swimming in slow, graceful strokes. “For fear that I'll swoon and drown.”

“DJ will save you,” Stark said. “Won't you, moppet?” DJ gave a firm nod. “See? Nothing to fear.” He propped his hands on his hips, drawing the fabric tight, and Steve knew he had to stop staring before he gave himself away.

He was so far from shore now that he wasn't sure that he'd ever find it again.

“Mr. Stark. We have a meeting.”

Stark turned, and for an instant, that was a relief, until Steve caught a glimpse of the curve of his ass in those shorts. “Ah. Agent.”

Startled out of his voyeurism, Steve looked up in time to see a tall, slim man in a plain black suit come striding across the room, his well-polished black shoes beating a steady tattoo on the damp tile. He had a briefcase in one hand, and a faint, enigmatic smile on his face. His dark eyes found Steve's, going narrow for an instant, and then he turned back to Stark.

“We have a meeting,” the man repeated. “Hello, Miss Potts. Mr. Rhodes. Officer Rogers.”

Steve's skin iced over, but he kept his face still. In the pool, Rhodey raised his arm in a wave. “You going to be staying for lunch, Agent Coulson?”

“I doubt I'll have time.” The man shifted his case to his other hand. “To my regret.”

“I regret it more than you, it's such fun watching you give cooking lessons to the chef in French,” Stark said. He gave the pool a wistful look. “I don't suppose I could convince you to combine business and pleasure?”

“As pleasant as that might be, I doubt the paperwork would survive,” Coulson said. “May we adjourn somewhere a bit less...” He paused, eyebrows arching. “Damp?”

“Such an unpleasant word. I resent it.” Stark leaned over, his fingers closing on the fabric of his robe, and Steve watched him, mesmerized by the play of muscle and bone beneath his golden skin. Stark straightened up, tossing the robe over one shoulder. “I'll dress and meet you in the usual spot.”

Coulson frowned. “We're already behind schedule.”

“In my defense, I tried to reschedule, and I'm not catching cold because you can't read a note.” Stark strode across the tile. “All right, my little pigeons, I'm off to handle some things. Don't have too good of a time in my absence.”

“We'll try to keep the party to a dull roar,” Rhodey said with a yawn. He braced his chin on his folded arms. “For a while at least. Out of respect.”

“I appreciate that,” Stark said. “Come on, Coulson. You're looming. It's disconcerting.”

If Coulson had a reply to that, Steve didn't hear it. He sucked in a breath, the tang of chlorine stinging the back of his throat. Get dressed. Get dressed. Why would Stark be getting dressed, the house was warm enough for him to wander about in nothing but that robe, and it clearly wasn't shame that drove him to find a pair of pants. So what-

The answer hit him like a physical blow. The green house. 

It made no sense, but at the same time, it absolutely made sense. It might've been a stretch, but if there was even a slight chance, Steve was willing to take it. “You know what?” he said to Rhodey, who opened his eyes, blinking up at Steve. “I think I will see if I can find a-” He waved a hand towards the pool. “Something to swim in.”

Rhodey grinned at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Looking to follow his fashion trends?”

“What?” It took a moment for that to sink in, then Steve felt his face heat. “No. No, I think-” He shook his head. “No.”

“Don't worry, he keeps the truly outrageous things for himself,” Pepper called. “There's plenty of more staid selections in the closet to the right of the entrance.” She held out a hand to DJ, who allowed himself to be coaxed off the stairs. “Pick whatever fits, and that you're comfortable with.”

DJ waved at Steve, who waved back. “Be careful, and don't cause trouble, all right?” he asked.

DJ ducked low in the water. “Trouble!” he echoed, making Pepper laugh.

“Trouble,” she agreed, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “Go ahead, Steve, you can get changed in the powder room there on-”

“I think I'll just, I'll go to my room,” Steve said. He stood. “So I might be a while.”

“We'll be right here,” Rhodey said, pushing away from the wall and stroking in Pepper's direction. “Take your time.”

“Thanks.” He should probably feel bad about this. Probably. But he wasn't surprised that he didn't, that lying to them came just a little too easily. Gritting his teeth against the thought, he headed towards the hall.

*

The door to the greenhouse was open.

Just a crack, barely an inch, as if someone hadn't quite pulled it shut behind them after walking in. But it was most certainly open. From the shelter of the house, Steve eyed it, waiting for someone to realize their error, to appear to push it closed and lock it.

But the minutes ticked by, and the grounds remained deserted in all directions. With one last glance over his shoulder, Steve headed across the lawn to the greenhouse. Even as he reached for the doorknob, he was still waiting for someone to appear to stop him.

No one did, and the door opened easily when he gave it a tug. In another moment, the was through the portal and inside the greenhouse. Startled by just how easy that had been, he paused, trying to get his bearings.

The front of the greenhouse was divided in neat rows by massive metal tables and low, broad beds of plantings.  Pots of flowers and rows of seedlings marched along the length of the aisles, each marked with wooden stakes topped with gleaming silver tags.  Huge clay containers hung from the crossbars over his head, leaves swaying in the heavy, damp air. He'd expected to hear someone talking, but there was nothing but the soft sounds of the leaves moving.

Steve picked his way up the main aisle, frowning down at the beds of delicate greens and vegetables he had no name for.  Everything smelled faintly of wet soil, that thick smell that came in the wake of a heavy rainstorm, and the floor was still damp. He glanced up, staring at the network of pipes that ran along just under the glass panes of the ceiling. There were sprinkler heads there, some of them still dripping.

With each step he took away from the door, the less space he found he had, the plants growing up steadily on both sides of the walkway.  By the time he was halfway through the greenhouse, he was pushing swaths of leaves out of his way, forcing his way towards the back. Feeling like he’d somehow entered a jungle, he ducked his way past what seemed to be a full grown tree, finding his way at last to something approaching an open space.

It was dominated by a massive, shining metal still, surrounded by big, heavy wooden casks.

Steve stared up at it, stymied.  It was flanked on all sides by huge metal tables, piled high with boxes of bottles and tubs of glassware.  There were other tables, there, smaller ones covered with a variety of unfamiliar equipment, and racks upon racks of seedlings.  There were round glass jugs labeled with rows of what seemed like random letters, and metal tins stacked on wooden shelves. 

But mostly, there was a still.

“What’s the password?”

He jolted, his hand going to his hip, grabbing for the gun that wasn’t there.  Mentally cursing himself, he spun on his heel, turning just in time to see 

She was dressed in a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a pair of brown trousers held up by a pair of suspenders.  She was wiping her hands on a big red handkerchief, trying her best to scrub the damp soil from her fingers. A flat cap was pulled low on her forehead, with only a few strands of her pale hair slipping free from under the brim.

She glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp under the line of her brows.  “What’s the password?” she repeated, tucking the handkerchief into her back pocket.  

Steve exhaled.  “Joe sent me,” he said.

Morse started to laugh.  “Look at that. He’s got a sense of humor,” she drawled, doffing her cap with a half bow.  Her blonde hair tumbled down her back, and she tossed the cap towards one of the workbenches.  “And here I thought that cops had that surgically removed when they took the badge.”

Steve tried not to smile.  “I ducked that part of the ceremony,” he said.  “They left the door unlocked, so...”

Her eyelashes dipped, slow and languid as she tied her hair back with a bit of cord.  “I’m sure it was,” she said, striding past him to check the pressure gauges on the still. “Since you respect locked doors so much. No chance you would've forced one open.”

“I thought Mr. Stark was in here,” Steve said.

“And I’m sure that he wanted you to think that,” she agreed.  She crouched down, her blunt fingernails tapping against a curl of copper tubing.  She made a considering sound under her breath. “I told him this would go badly.”

“Mr. Stark?”

She glanced up at him.  “What?” She braced her hands on her thighs and straightened up.  “Oh! No. I meant Bruce. I’ve told Tony things will go badly, too, of course, but this, this is all Bruce.”  She ducked around him, snagging a silver bucket from a shelf and coming back around Steve’s other side. He tried to step back, out of the way, and she waved a hand in his direction.  “You’re fine.” 

“Is that what all this secrecy is about?” Steve asked, a little deflated by the idea.  “You’re telling me that Stark doesn’t bother locking his workshop, he’s got piles of plans and diagrams and blueprints piled up in the library, but this?” He glared at the still.  “This, you keep under lock and key?”

Morse propped her hands on her hips, rocking back and forth on her heels.  “Yep,” she drawled. 

Steve stared at her.  She stared back, her head cocked to the side.  “You do realize that Prohibition is over, don’t you?” he asked.  “You can… Buy liquor now.”

“Oh, yes.”  She was checking the valves now, slow and methodical.  “And I do.”

Steve nodded.  “So why are you still brewing your own?”

Her eyebrows arched.  “Oh, see, that’s the problem, you think I built this-” She tapped the silken bronze surface of the still with one knuckle.  “Because I had to?”

“Yes.” She smiled at Steve, who resisted the urge to sigh.  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Why else would you?”

“We’re very different people, you and I,” she said, laughter audible in the words.  “I do it because I can, and Tony pays for it.”

“Right,” Steve said.  He studied the still. “Why?”

“You remind me of my sister’s kid.  He’s three. And everything is ‘why,’” Morse said.  She straightened up, blowing a strand of hair out of her face with a quick, sharp exhale of breath.  “Why, why, why.”

“The world is confusing and people don’t make sense,” Steve mused.  “He and I, we’re just trying to figure it out.”

“Can’t fault you on that,” Morse said.  “But I also don’t have answers for you, officer.”

Steve nodded.  “Understood, ma’am.”  He turned to go, and paused, his hand floating over edge of one of the tables.  “One more question?”

“Heck, I’ll give you two,” she said.  “Might even give you honest answers.”

“I’ll take ‘em.”  Steve turned back to her.  “Is this what Mr. Stark hired you for?”

Her eyes narrowed.  “I’m a woman of all work, Officer.  I do a bit of gardening, a bit of housekeeping.  I chop some wood, I polish some brass, including this brass,” she said, gesturing at the still.  “He's... Satisfied by my output.”

“Which is not an answer, and yet, I think it tells me more than you intended to,” Steve said.  

“If you can read between the lines, I’m an open book,” she said, leaning back against a workbench, her hands braced on either side of her narrow hips.  “And if you can’t, well, it’s not my job to teach you how.”

“Understood,” Steve repeated.  “Second question. Where did he find you?”

Her teeth flashed in a smile that was sharp and dangerous.  “Jail.”

Steve blinked at her.  “Ah.”

She rocked forward, pushing away from the workbench.  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Family business didn’t work out so well for me, but neither did the chemistry phd, so I guess maybe the problem was me.”  She turned her back to him, reaching for a rack of test tubes. “Any other questions, officer?”

“I think I’ll stick to the terms of our agreement,” Steve said.  He dipped his head in a slight nod. “Appreciate your time, ma’am.”

She glanced back at him.  “Feel free to stop by anytime, Officer.  You sure do improve the scenery.”

“Glad I could be of service,” Steve said.  “And does that mean the door’s going to be unlocked from now on?”

“I doubt it,” Morse said, her ponytail swinging behind her as she moved.  “After all, I’m pretty sure Tony just unlocked it to throw you off of his trail.”  She grabbed a heavy jug, swinging it up onto the workbench. Steve wasn’t sure if it held whiskey or something a great deal more caustic.  “Didn’t he?”

Steve took a deep breath.  “I think he did.”

She popped the cork.  “He’s quite clever, Officer.  Better watch yourself.” She gave him a look, her lashes sweeping low over her eyes.  “Once you get deep enough into the labyrinth, you might have a hard time finding your way back out.”

He looked up, at the heavy weight of the vegetation that pressed in on them, a confusing tangle of impenetrable leaves and stems and blossoms, so thick that it threatened to block out the sun.  He could feel it, the damp air a physical pressure on his skin. And wondered if that warning was coming far too late.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” was all he said.

She was already focused on her work.  “See? You’re learning already.”

*

“Here you are.”

“Here we are,” Tony agreed. He rolled his head on his neck, trying to loosen the muscles. “Right where you left us.”

Rogers paused halfway across the workshop. “Yes,” he said, exasperated. “This is where I left you. Two hours ago.”

“Right,” Tony agreed. “DJ, hand me the pliers, I need-'

“I think he's done for the night,” Rogers said. “It's well past his bedrime, and-”

"No," Tony said, and that sounded like a whine, there was a distinctly whiny note to his voice just then. He squinted down at the interlocking gears of the mechanism, trying to clear his vision. "No, I need my child labor. Tiny. Tiny hands. Good for holding things. It's..." He stopped, not sure where he was going with that. "Necessary," he managed at last.

Rogers stared down at him. He did not look impressed. "He's asleep, Mr. Stark. He's-" Rogers waved a hand down at DJ, and Tony followed the motion. DJ was flopped forward, his cheek pressed against the bench, his eyes closed, his moth gaping open. Tony was pretty sure he was drooling. "He's of no use to you," Rogers continued. "Because he's asleep."

Tony glared at DJ. DJ did not appear to notice. "Prop up his hand. I need it."

Rogers gave him a look. It was a very disrespectful look. "Go to bed, Mr. Stark." He reached down, big hands sliding under DJ's legs and back. He straightened up, DJ cradled against his chest, and DJ pawed at the air.

"Wooooooooork," he said, and Tony was very proud of him, right up until he started snoring.

"I'm docking your pay," he said to DJ, who twisted around in Rogers' arms, burying his face in Rogers' shoulder. "No use crying on the help, my mind is made up. You've failed me, there will be nothing but bread and water for the foreseeable future, unless it's the good kind of bread, and then it's-" He didn't know where he was going with this. Judging by the look on Rogers' face, neither did he. 

Tony waved a hand through the air. "Take him away. Work. I have work. You're in the way. He is definitely in the way, all the tiny little limbs and things, and-"

He looked up, and Rogers was smiling at him, just a little, his mouth kicked up at the corners. Tony glared at him. "Are you... Smirking at me?" he asked, suspicious. He pointed a wrench at the blasted man, his eyes narrowed. "That looks like a smirk."

"You're nothing but a fake, aren't you?" Rogers said, his voice soft. Tony stiffened, but Rogers was still smiling at him. "There are more lost lambs in this house than the one he came from." He ran a hand up and down DJ's back, the gesture slow and comforting. He didn't seem to be aware of doing it, the movement pure instinct. "Have you ever put anyone out, Mr. Stark? In your entire life, have you ever really thrown anyone to the wolves?"

Tony brought his chin up. "You're angling to be the first," he said. He turned back to his work. "Dispose of the urchin. And put a note on him that he is not to be fed in the morning."

"Even if I did, I don't think anyone here'd bother to obey it," Rogers said. Behind him, Tony heard the heavy, measured tread of his feet towards the workshop door. He didn't bother to look up, or back.

Seeing the door close behind them would've been depressing in a way that he didn't really want to think about. Tony shook off the thought, bending over the piece of machinery he was working on. He could almost remember what he was doing, and he paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “Focus, Stark,” he muttered. “So you're alone. That's fine. You've been alone before. You've done this alone before.” He reached for a set of wire cutters. “And you're going to be doing this alone for a long time to come. Best you get used to that now, no matter how depressing it is.”

Work was the solution. Work had always been the solution, and it would always be the solution. After all, he thought with a wry twist to his lips, it wasn't like had another one.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he worked, but by the time he was nearly done, blinking hurt. He struggled to focus as he tried to brace the strut in place with the back of his wrist, fumbling across the workbench for a pair of pliers. "Stay put, you damned-"

An arm reached past him, and Tony jerked upright, adrenaline knocking his heartbeat into overdrive. He rocked backwards on his stool, and collided with something big, warm, and solid. 

"I've got it," Rogers said, his voice right next to Tony's ear. His fingers slid under Tony's hand, nudging him out of the way. "What are you trying to do?"

Tony's back was right up against Rogers' chest as he leaned over Tony's shoulder. Each word seemed to vibrate through his frame, and Tony felt his heartbeat accelerate. "Uh," he managed, and that wasn't helpful at all. He felt Rogers' body shift against his, and he shoved himself upright. "Fix it. I'm trying to fix it."

There was a beat of silence, and then Rogers said, "Right. How?"

The question was like a splash of cold water, straight to the face. Tony gave his head a shake. "Is that sass?" he asked, reaching for the pliers again. Rogers got there first, fingers curling around the grip as he handed them over. "Is that working class sass I hear in your voice?"

Rogers leaned in. "Pure Irish cheek," he said, with a broad, almost comical brogue. "What's it t' ya, pally?"

The bark of laughter caught them both off balance. "Don't do that again," Tony said, trying to get himself under control. "Just- Don't, I do not need-"

"An' who cares what the likes of you needs? Me, I'll be needing a bed an' I ain't gettin' it as long as you need a nurse maid," Rogers said, and he was laughing now, too, his shoulders jerking with it. He rocked forward, his chest brushing against Tony's back, and Tony had to work hard at not relaxing into the shelter of his body.

Tony smacked his fingers lightly with the pliers. "Hold still, you're of no use if you're shaking the whole structure, so-”

Rogers leaned forward. “Get to work, Mr. Stark.” He chuckled, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against the curve of Tony's ear, making him shiver. “Impress me.”

The words were like a shot of adrenaline, straight to the basest part of his brain. Tony sucked in a long, slow breath, trying to ignore the sudden spike of arousal that curled through him. There was something wrong with him, he'd always known that, but he was pretty certain that the combination of that voice and those words were going to haunt his dreams in the best possible way in the days to come.

He apparently had a very odd idea of what constituted dirty talk, but damn if this wasn't working for him.

Tony gave his head a brisk shake, trying to get some blood back into it. “Watch and learn,” he said, and if his voice sounded husky and a bit raw on the edges, well, he could chalk that up to the late hour and the sheer amount of coffee he'd drunk. But his hands were steady as he started making adjustments, his fingers flying over the mechanism, putting things to right with a speed that impressed even him.

"There." He rapped Rogers' wrist with his knuckles, the skin to skin contact fleeting. "All set. You may go."

"I may go?" Rogers echoed. But he did take a step back, and as much as Tony missed the heat of his body, that did make it easier to think.

"Yes." He flipped his hand towards the door. "Go. Bed. Rest of the righteous, and all that." Rogers didn't move, and Tony glanced at him. "Is there something else you need, Officer Rogers?"

Rogers crossed his arms over his chest. "I think you're forgetting something, Mr. Stark."

Tony let his eyes roll up towards the ceiling. "Fine. Thank you." Rogers' eyebrows arched, and Tony hid a smile behind his coffee cup. "You proved an adequate replacement for an eight year old street urchin. Your ancestors should be very proud.” He pointed the cup at Rogers. “You should be proud."

Rogers' lips quirked up. "My ancestors would be wondering why I haven't blacked your eye yet." He leaned in. "And while I appreciate your approval, that wasn't what I was talking about." He pointed at the door. "It's bedtime, Mr. Stark."

"You know you're not actually my body man right?" Tony asked him. Which was a shame. It was a crying shame. Of course, if he had Rogers dressing him every morning, and undressing him every night, he wouldn't last the month. Shaking off that lovely thought, he gave Rogers a wry smile. "Or my nurse maid."

"No, sir, I'm your state assigned guard." Rogers leaned a palm on the edge of the workbench, the muscles of his arm bunching beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. "My job, so my Captain tells me, is to keep any harm from coming to you."

"And I'm perfectly safe down here, so..."

"At this point, I think you're a threat to yourself," Rogers said. He leaned forward, his blue eyes steady and sharp. "So are you off to bed, Mr. Stark?"

Tony considered that. "Tempting. But no." He glanced at the bench, and reached for the toolbox. "I've got work that I have to-"

"Right." Rogers straightened up. "I'm getting Jarvis."

Tony bobbled a wrench. He managed to snag it from mid-air, clutching it to his chest. "Excuse me?" he asked, incredulous.

Rogers gave him a wide, bright smile. "I'm going to go upstairs," he said, and there was a note to his voice that Tony had never heard before. Low. Dark. Almost threatening. "I'm going to wake Jarvis. And I'm going to tell him that you're in danger of lighting yourself on fire or losing a limb down here." His teeth flashed in a grin that did very interesting things to Tony's blood pressure. "And make this problem... His problem."

Tony realized he was still hugging his wrench. "You wouldn't dare," he said. 

Rogers leaned in. "I think," he said, and yes, that voice was going to haunt Tony's dreams in the best way possible, "you'll find that I'll dare quite a bit, Mr. Stark." His eyes narrowed. "Especially when I'm dealing with a high class fella doing his level best to throw his weight around."

Tony leaned back against the bench, his head tipped to the side. "How, exactly, are you still employed as a public servant?" he asked, amused despite himself.

Rogers grinned, wide and boyish and bright, and Tony lost his breath. "I"m an Irish war hero, and Tammany's still a thing in this city."

"That it is." Tony drained the rest of his coffee and tossed the cup back on the workbench. He slid down off of his stool, stretching his arms over his head. Everything ached, and he set his hands at the small of his back, trying to work out the kinks in his spine. "All right, my flatfooted friend, you win."

“Imagine my relief, Mr. Stark,” Rogers said. 

“Yes, well, don't get used to it.” Tony waved a hand in his direction. “And the 'Mr. Stark' thing is beginning to annoy me. Call me Tony, everyone does.”

Rogers paused, one eyebrow arching. “Everyone.”

“Well, my friends do,” Tony said. He moved towards the door, only to find he was alone. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. Rogers was standing there, a very strange expression on his face. 

“I don't think we're quite friends, Mr. Stark.”

It should've stung, but somehow it didn't. Tony smiled at him. “That's all right,” he said, and it was easy, it was so easy. “All of my insubordinate help does, too.” 

That startled a laugh out of him, sudden and real, before he clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Tony grinned at him, warmth blooming in his chest. “See, Rogers? We can be friends. Humor me.”

Rogers' hand dropped back to his side, but his mouth was still twitching, his eyes dancing. “Steve,” he said.

Tony shook his head. “No.” He tapped his chest. “Tony. To. Nee. It's-”

Rogers' eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “It's Steve,” he said, cutting Tony off. His head fell forward, then came back up, his eyes warm beneath the firm line of his brows. He was smiling when he added, “The only ones who call me Rogers are commanding officers who think I'm going to obey them.”

Tony tucked his hands in his pockets, mostly to keep them from grabbing the front of Rogers' shirt and dragging him down. “Steve,” he said, the word felt like a victory on his tongue.

Steve's cheeks looked pink in the low light. “Tony,” he said, and that was definitely a victory. 

Tony took a deep breath. “Now that we've reached such a deep and abiding accord, I think it would be best if I were to-”

“Go to bed, Tony,” Steve said, and, laughing, Tony headed for the door. 

He'd pushed his luck enough for one day.


	7. Chapter 7

“Coulson knew him.”

“I love how that’s what we’re choosing to focus on,” Tony drawled, his fingers working their way into a narrow gap in the prototype’s frame. He gritted his teeth, trying to find an angle that would give him the access he needed without scraping half the skin off of his knuckles. “As if that’s what’s important.”

“Well, you have to admit, darling, it’s a bit worrying,” Jan said, her nose buried in a report. Tony glanced up just in time to see her flip the page, her fingers flitting across the paper. “In that most of the things that Coulson knows about are…” She paused, her lips pursing into a perfect bow. “I don’t know quite the right word.”

“Terrifying?” Rhodey offered, offering Tony a screwdriver. “If you take that off, don’t forget-”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Tony muttered, jamming the tool between his teeth.

“I’d say ‘worrying,’” Pepper said. She was reading over Jan’s shoulder, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Very worrying.”

“I’ll be honest,” Bobbi said, her head bent over a stack of notes, “I’m less worried about the fact that he knew him, and more that he felt he had to tell us he knew him.” She made a see-saw motion in midair with one hand. “He usually plays everything on a ‘need to know’ basis.”

“Guess he thought we needed to know,” Bruce said. He was pacing around the room, his gait quick and uneven, almost jerky. He glanced over his shoulder in Tony’s direction, making eye contact for just a moment before he looked away again. “Speaking of, uh, where is he?”

“Coulson, or Rogers?” Tony asked. “The former, I have no idea, and I’m happier not knowing.” He let his eyes float closed, finding his way through the interior of the prototype by touch. “As to the other…”

His voice trailed away, and Natasha picked up the thread without missing a beat. “We left the northside gate unlocked. He’s…” She stopped, and Tony opened one eye to peer at her. She handed a knife to Clint, who took it with a broad, self-satisfied grin. “He’s very disappointed in us.”

Tony let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, God, I’m sure he is.” He handed Rhodey the remains of a screw. Rhodey looked at the sheared off end and made a face. “Agreed,” Tony told him. Then, to Natasha, “How long do we think that’ll keep him busy?”

“Well, Happy and Thor are ‘patrolling’ with him,” she said with a slight smile. “I trust they’ll have him poking his nose into all sorts of utterly useless nooks and crannies.”

“Knowing Happy, he’ll make up some new ones, too,” Tony said.

“Knowing Thor, they’ll be on the roof in twenty minutes,” Jan said. She closed the file and offered it to Pepper. “Want a closer look?”

Pepper rocked back in her chair. “I’ll be honest,” she said. “There’s so much redacting in that file, that nothing short of a microscope would allow me to look ‘closer.’ We’ve got locations, and dates and the implication that someone, probably multiple someones, think he’s very important.”

“True.” Jan held it out to Bruce, who gave his head a hard, sharp shake.

“No, thanks, I’m-” Another shake of his head, hard enough to send his hair bouncing. “I’m better off not knowing.” He pivoted on his heel, his arms folded tightly over his chest. He was hunched into himself, his body swaying to some internal rhythm. “Just-” He managed a flat smile for Jan. “Just give me the gist.”

Jan smiled back. “He’s trouble,” she said, her voice gentle. 

“Right,” Bruce said, nodding once, and then again. “Right.” He looked at Bobbi. “I don’t suppose you can add anything to that? About what kind of trouble he, uh, he might be?”

“The legal kind,” she said, one boot heel bouncing against the floor. “So. No. I can’t.” She looked up. I do have a question, though.” She looked at Tony. “How did he end up here?”

“A very interesting question,” Tony said, his voice arching. He pulled out a wire, ignoring the way it sparked between his fingers. “Pep? Do we have an answer to that very interesting question?”

She crossed her legs, her head tipped to the side as she considered that. “Because Hill wanted him here.”

“Because Hill wanted him here,” Tony agreed. “The question is…” He wiped his hands on a rag. “Why?”

“What was she hoping to accomplish?” Rhodey asked, leaning against the edge of the workbench. He crossed his arms over his chest. “She had to know he was going to be discovered, he’s not cut out to be a spy.”

“Too blunt,” Tony agreed. He considered that. He knew he was an idiot, but considering Steve Rogers was fast becoming one of his favorite pastimes. He shook off the thought. “Maybe it’s a cover.”

Clint grumbled a random string of syllables, and Tony waited patiently for Natasha to translate absolutely nothing. “Do we have something to share with the class?” he asked, and his French wasn’t particularly good, but at least it was Goddamn French.

Natasha gave Clint a look, and he shrugged. She turned back to Tony. “It’s not cover,” she said, one leg swinging slowly back and forth through the air, her skirts swishing with the movement. “It’s a job application.”

Everyone stilled. “I wasn’t aware I had any openings,” Tony said, tossing the filthy rag back in the general direction of the workbench.

One of Natasha’s shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “You are putting together quite the orchestra,” she said, her voice considering. “And you don’t like Hill.”

“I am fine with Hill,” Tony said.

“That’s a lie,” Pepper said.

“I don’t like Fury,” Tony said.

“That’s a little closer to the truth,” Rhodey said. 

“Either way, they’ve got a horn player they want you to consider for the lineup,” Natasha said. “But you’re not going to take their recommendation.”

“She has a point, darling,” Jan mused. “Best way to judge a musician is to see if he can play with the group you’ve already got.”

“Doesn’t matter how good a trumpet player is if he’s going to put his foot through the bass drum ten minutes into the set,” Bobbi said, grinning. “Or if the drummer’s going to take a cymbal to his.”

“This metaphor is getting out of hand,” Tony said.

“It’s not the only thing,” Bruce said. He rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet. “We’re also, uh, we’re going in circles.” He glanced around the room. “So, what are we going to DO about it?”

Wordlessly, Jan held the file out to Tony. He considered it, sensing a trap that he wasn’t sure he could avoid. “Whoever he is, he’s got quite the file,” he said. He took it from Jan. “Shame we won’t get to read it.”

He turned it over in his hands, studying the stenciled words on the front. Project: Rebirth. He wasn’t sure why, but the words made him uneasy. He took a deep breath, and held it out to Pepper. “Put it downstairs.”

Her eyebrows arched. “And when Coulson comes back looking for it?”

“We tell him that he should be more careful with his possessions, it’s not our responsibility to take care of them, and he shouldn’t expect us to,” Tony said. “If he does, he’s delusional.”

“I suspect he expects nothing less,” Pepper said. She reached for her bag. “Which is why this contains about twenty legible words.”

“He’s tricky,” Tony agreed. There was a knock at the door, and he glanced at Pepper, making sure she’d put the dossier away. “What’s the password?” he called.

Peter poked his head into the room. “We have cookies?”

“If that wasn’t the password before, it’s the password now,” Rhodey said as Peter stepped aside, letting DJ bounce into the room, a plate clutched in his hands. There was flour all over his shirt and hand, his hair dusted with white. “What’ve you got there, sport?”

DJ grinned up at him. “Cookies!”

“Excellent.” Pepper stood. “Did you make them?” 

DJ nodded, and Peter leaned up against the workbench. “Aunt May helped,” he explained, as DJ offered the plate to everyone. “With measuring and that sorta stuff.”

“She’s a very helpful lady,” Jan said. She held her hands out to DJ. “Hello, my darling. Come here, you’re covered in flour.”

“He was very enthusiastic about mixing,” Peter explained, taking a cookie before DJ headed across the room to Jan. He took a big bite. “An’ everything else.”

“Getting into your work is a sign of an advanced mind,” Jan said. She took the plate of cookies from DJ, handing them to Bruce. “Here, Bruce, have a cookie, it’ll be good for your nerves.”

He took them. “My nerves are fine, Jan.”

“Then eat a cookie because it’ll settle my nerves,” she said, her voice arch. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and started wiping DJ’s face. “And because DJ was kind enough to give you one.”

Bruce studied the cookies. “I’ll ruin my dinner,” he said. 

Jan sighed. “You can prove to be a bad example at least once, Dr. Banner.”

“What time is it?” Tony reached into his pocket. “Peter, shouldn’t you be in school? You’re still going to school, aren’t you?” He frowned down at his watch. “I seem to recall schooling.”

“I went to school,” Peter said with a grin. “Then school ended, and I came home. I did my homework in the kitchen, and DJ helped with that, which was very nice of him. Now I’m eating a cookie.”

Tony stared at him. “Fascinating,” he said. 

“Well, you did ask,” Rhodey told him. 

“And I have learned my lesson.”

Jan had DJ in her lap now, blowing gently on his hair. Flour floated through the air like snow, making him giggle. “Have you anything fun planned for Sunday?”

“He’s sweeping the chimney,” Tony said, frowning down at his paperwork. 

“That’s the end of the week,” Jan said. Tony stared at her, and her lips went thin. “The end. Of the week, Anthony.”

Everyone was staring at him, everyone except DJ, who was kicking his legs and grinning at the resulting flour storms. Out of his line of sight, Pepper, pointed at DJ, her face set in a fierce frown. Tony shrugged. “What are you-”

“The end of the week, Tony,” she said. ‘The end of the week that DJ is spending with us.”

Tony froze. “It hasn’t been a week already,” he said.

“You might not be the best at keeping track of time, Mr. Stark,” Peter said. “Or schedules.”

“I have people for that,” Tony told him. “And those people have clearly been falling down on his job, because I am not sure when-” He stopped. “Right. End of the week. No. We do not have any plans. I’m not sure what plans I should be-”

“We could go to the theater,” Jan said, interrupting him, and Tony was grateful for the excuse to stop talking. She leaned over, meeting DJ’s eyes. “Would you like to see the ballet? Or go to the opera?”

“That… Might be a bit much,” Pepper said. “The performances can be awfully long, Jan, and…”

“Baseball season’s over,” Rhodey said. “Otherwise, that would’ve been fun.”

“How about a movie?” Peter said. “Movies are great.” He picked up another cookie. “DJ, have you ever been to a movie?”

DJ shook his head, and Peter grinned at him. “You’ll love it. I used to go more when I was your age, there was an old nickelodeon near where we lived in Queens, and my uncle’d give me a few dimes, an’ I’d stay there all day.”

Jan made a face. “Isn’t a movie rather… Ordinary?”

“Let’s work up to the opera,” Tony said.

“Let’s never do the opera,” Bobbi mumbled into her notes.

“You can come with me next time,” Jan told her. “You and Pepper and Natasha. I’ll bring you a gown and we can be a mysterious band of glamorous and-”

“Hard pass,” Bobbi said, trying to hide a smile.

Jan huffed out a breath. “No one lets me have any fun,” she complained. She rested her chin on DJ’s head. “Tony. Let me have fun.”

“No,” Tony said.

“DJ, tell him to let me have fun,” Jan said. She ducked her head behind his. “Tony, you should let Jan plan our movie night!” she said, mimicking a little boy’s voice.

“Really, DJ?” Tony asked. “You trust that maniac?”

“Of course!” Jan said, as DJ nodded. “She’s very nice and she loves me and she loves you, Tony! She loves you and wants you to be happy!”

“I sincerely doubt this,” Tony said. But he reached for a cookie. “I’m telling you now, kid. You’re going to regret this.”

Jan peeked over DJ’s shoulder. “Is that a yes?” she asked hopefully.

“It’s a ‘I doubt I could stop you, even if I tried,’” Tony said. He jammed a whole cookie in his mouth. “I’m accepting my fate.”

“On several levels,” Pepper said. Tony gave her a look, and she reached for her bag. “Now. If you’ll excuse me. I need to go downstairs.”

*

“Miss Van Dyne has notified us as to her plans,” Pepper said.

Steve looked up from his sketchpad. Pepper was standing just inside the door of the workshop, a letter held in one hand, an exhausted expression on her face. “This is your fault,” she said.

“Most things are,” Tony said, working at a stubborn screw. “At least as far as you’re concerned.” He glanced over at DJ, who was organizing his extensive array of screwdrivers by size. “Which one’s your favorite?”

DJ considered them, and then chose a flathead with a polished black handle.

“Yes, that’s a quality one, hand it over,” Tony said, holding out a hand. 

“Are you paying attention right now?” Pepper asked him.

“Yes,” Tony said, squinting at the hole. “Absolutely.”

Pepper propped her hands on her hips. “What have we said about not giving Miss Van Dyne carte blanche?”

 

“That it’s a very poor idea?” Tony asked.

“Yes, it is, and yet, you’ve done it again.” Pepper slapped the letter down on the workbench. “Which has resulted in her renting out Radio City Music Hall.”

Tony gave the letter a suspicious look. “Who’s paying for that?”

Pepper’s eyes fluttered closed. “Who do you think?” she asked.

“Right,” Tony said. But his lips were twitching. He glanced at DJ. “Isn’t that great? You’re going to see a movie.”

DJ propped his chin on the edge of the workbench. “Movie,” he said, his eyes bright.”

“Why do I try?” Pepper asked the ceiling.

“Because you refuse to give up on any of the many lost causes in your life,” Tony said. “DJ, do you want to-”

“Excuse me,” Steve said. “We’re going to see a movie?”

“As a special treat,” Tony said. Steve glanced at Pepper, who nodded. 

Steve took a deep breath. “You rented a theater to see a movie?”

Tony looked at him, his eyes narrowed, as if he was looking for some sort of hidden meaning in Rogers's very straightforward words. “Yes,” he said at last. It sounded a bit like a question. “I mean. I’m not. Jan is. Because Jan doesn’t have any idea how to do things by half measures. It’s part of her charm, but sometimes, honestly, she’s-”

“She rented Radio City Music Hall,” Steve said, cutting him off. 

“Yes.” Tony said.

“For you and DJ,” Steve said, just to clarify.

“For Pepper and DJ,” Tony said, going back to his work. Pepper gave him a look, and he shrugged. “Rhodey likes movies, I'm sure he'll go, and you're welcome to join them. There's plenty of seats.”

“Yes, there is,” Steve said. “Radio City Music hall seats, what, fifteen hundred people?”

“Closer to six thousand,” Pepper said.

“Six THOUSAND,” Steve repeated. “Six. Thousand.”

“I'll take your word for that,” Tony said.

“Right,” Steve said.

Tony heaved a very deliberate sigh. “I'm sensing there's something here that you're not saying, and I'm tired, I'm very tired, so how about we just get to the point?”

Steve tried not to smile. It was harder than it should've been. “The point, Mr. Stark,” he said, biting off the words with crisp precision, “is that you've rented out a six thousand seat house to plop a single child in the middle of a very grand, very empty room.”

“Yes?” Tony said, and he was confused. Steve could see it on his face. He was honestly and truly confused. Pepper, meanwhile, was hiding a smile behind one hand. DJ was watching them both, his eyes darting between them.

Steve braced his sketchbook against his knee. “That sounds like the loneliest experience I can imagine,” he said. I mean, what's movies, what's the theater, other than finding the human heart of a story? To laugh at the same time as the fella next to you, to see a girl crying real tears over a pretend person?”

“The audience exists because the theater owner wants to make money,” Tony pointed out. “And packing 'em into the seats is the best way to do that.” He shook his head. “The movie doesn't care if you smile, Officer Rogers. The actors have long since gone on with their day, and the celluloid doesn't care if it's playing to a packed house or a single person.” He arched an eyebrow. “And I prefer the single person.”

“Which is fairly obvious, as you spend your life alone, in a basement,” Steve said. Pepper made a sound that might’ve been a choked off laugh. Tony’s head snapped up, and Steve gave him a pleasant smile. “With the occasional visitor, who exists to be expelled as soon as possible.”

Tony's mouth opened. Closed. Steve kept smiling. “It's a special treat,” Tony managed at last. “The movie. Not the-”

“I understand that,” Steve said. “And it's very kind of you to take him.”

“It is,” Tony said. “Wait, for me to-”

“It's also a colossal waste,” Steve said.

“I can afford it,” Tony said.

“Yes, but there's no reason for it to be a waste.” Steve slashed his pencil through the air. “It's pointless. You've already paid for the seats. You've already spent the money. Why not use that, and make people other than DJ happy?”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're an exhausting human being, you do know that, don't you?” he asked. But Steve was pretty sure he was hiding a smile.

“Been told as much by everyone from my Ma through to my Captain in slightly less polite terms,” Steve said. “Stubborn as a hungry hog half a foot from the trough is how my Ma phrased it.”

“Colorful,” Tony said, but yes, he was definitely smiling now, the sort of a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the sharp line of his jaw. “All right, then, officer, I'll bite.” He braced a hand on the workbench, leaning into it. “Who, exactly, do you plan on putting in those seats?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Steve said, pretending to think about it. “Thought Pepper said something about a factory full of workers in your employ.” He looked at Pepper, his expression innocent. “Didn’t you say that?”

“Oh, my, I did,” she said. “I did say that.”

“Bet some of them have kids of their own. But I bet you know best,” Steve said to Tony. “That’d only make sense. I mean, I’m sure none of them would be interested in seeing a show.”

Tony blinked at him. “Well, I mean-”

“And there's another fifty little boys where DJ comes from,” Steve said. “Who weren’t lucky enough to get picked.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Most of them probably never saw a movie, either.”

“Well-”

“I mean, at least not without having to try to sneak in through a back door, or past an usher,” Steve pointed out. “Knowing some of them, I’m sure they’ve made a try or two, but might be nice for them to see one without having to worry about being carried out by their ear.”

“All right, then-”

“Most of them don’t have any idea if they’ll be fed tonight, so it-”

Tony stared at him. “What will it take to make you stop?” he said, and Steve grinned at him.

“Way I see it, Tony,” he said, tapping his pencil against the pad, “it’s gonna cost you the same if you make one little boy happy, or a whole room full of people happy.” He arched his eyebrows. “So, which’ll it be?”

Tony looked at DJ. “Don’t you want to be special?” he asked.

DJ considered that. “No,” he said at last, and Steve burst out laughing.

“Fine. Fine. You’re all against me.” Tony braced his hands on the edge of the workbench. “Potts. You have to distribute tickets at the factories.”

“Of course, sir,” she said.

Tony pointed a finger at Steve. “You are responsible for keeping the urchins under control.”

“I could,” Steve said. “But if Miss Potts is handling your employees, and I’m handling the boys from Hammer’s House, then who’s going to be taking care of DJ?”

Tony stared at him, and Steve stared back, utterly unconcerned. “DJ, would you like to see a movie with me?” Tony asked at last.

DJ grinned up at him. “Yes,” he said, and offered Tony a screwdriver.

“Wonderful,” Tony said.

“Well, then, since that’s settled,” Steve said. “Miss Potts, if you’ll let me know if you need me to do anything?”

“Oh, trust me, Officer Rogers, you will be the first one I come to, from now on,” Pepper said. 

“You’re not allowed to recruit him for your little cabal,” Tony said. “You. Not allowed.”

“Of course not, Tony,” she said, and with a wink in Steve’s direction, she left the workshop.

Tony pointed the screwdriver at Steve. “Are we satisfied?”

“For now.” Steve looked back down at his sketchbook. The random doodles that he’d been working on somehow seemed to have turned into a detailed drawing of Tony’s hands. He stared down at it, wondering if he could even trust himself anymore.

He turned the page and started over, trying not to think about Tony’s smile.

*

“I think we should keep him.”

Tony paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he looked up, meeting Peter’s eyes over the top of his paperwork. “We’re not keeping him.”

Peter blinked at him, almost vibrating with leashed energy. “I think we should,” he said. Tony made to step past him, and Peter matched him, step by step. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Tony sighed. “Peter.”

“I know, it’s none of my business, Mr. Stark, I know that-”

“And you’re still going,” Tony said to no one in particular. “This… This is still happening.”

“I agree, it’s not something that is any of my business,” Peter rushed on, the words bumping up against each other. 

“It’s not.” Tony slipped into the library, trying to close the door before Peter could slip through, but he was remarkably quick. Sighing, Tony headed for his desk, Peter dogging his heels the entire way. May, who was tidying Pepper’s desk, gave him a sympathetic look. “Peter-”

“I know!” Peter rushed out. “And it’s not something I should ask, but I think he’s good, I mean, we’re good for him, and he’s good for us-”

“Us?” Tony echoed. “Peter. There’s no ‘us,’ you’re too young to sign adoption papers, and I’m too old to think that’s at all a good idea, so there is no us, there’s just-”

“I think that things have been better since he got here, don’t you?” Peter asked, and he was so earnest, he nearly radiated it. Tony stopped walking, and so did he, just about tripping over his own feet as he turned to face Tony. “I just-” He tucked his hands in his pockets, his shoulders flexing in something like a shrug. “I think it’s been better.” He blinked at Tony. “Don’t you?”

Tony took a deep breath. “Parker.”

Peter straightened up. “Mr. Stark?”

“Do you want a dog, Parker? Is that what this is all about?” Tony slapped the file folder against his leg. “Because I can get you a dog.”

“Excuse me?” May’s head came up, her eyes narrowed into slits of pure fire.

“I can ask your aunt if I can get you a dog,” Tony amended instantly, winning himself a pleased nod. “Better?” he asked her.

“No, because now it’s my fault that he can’t have a dog,” she said, her voice stern.

“It was-” Tony spread his hands wide. “It was always your fault that he couldn't have a dog, May, that was one hundred percent on you.”

“And now it’s a topic of conversation again,” she said, collecting the empty cups and plates from the desk and piling them up on a tray balanced on her hip. “And it’s your fault.”

“Most things are,” Tony admitted, staring helplessly at the ceiling.

“At least you admit it,” May said, heading for the door. “Peter. Behave.”

“Right. I’m behaving. I’m totally behaving. I don’t want a dog,” Peter said, and Tony gave him a disbelieving look. His mouth worked. “All right, I do, I do want a dog, but that’s not what this is about.”

“Fine.” Tony threw himself into his library chair, his head pounding already. “So. What is this about?”

On the other side of his desk, separated from him by that gulf of polished wood, Peter paused. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I know the only reason I’m here is because Uncle Ben died at the factory,” he said, and it was so small, so quiet, and it fell like a rock into the space between them.

The spike of nausea caught him off guard, so sudden and so complete that it left him reeling. He reached for his coffee cup, and had to ignore the way his fingers were trembling. “You’re here,” he said, his voice hard, “because I needed a housekeeper, and your aunt is a damn good one. You were just part of a package deal, and at the time when I hired her, you were small and quiet and I assumed that she would be putting you in an empty closet or shed of some sort.”

Peter’s lips twitched. “She did. I got out.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” Tony grumbled. 

“You kept forgetting to lock the door,” Peter said.

“I lose keys, they’re small and unimportant, but so were you, the point is, you should have been polite enough to stay where you were put and not ended up wandering around the house and touching things, touching everything, it’s just unconscionable, your fingerprints are on-” Tony waved a wild hand at the library. “Everything.” 

Slamming the cup down, he grabbed a folio at random from the blotter, flipping it open. “At this point, college is going to be a bargain.”

Peter smiled. “I’m not going to college, Mr. Stark.”

Tony glared at him. “You,” he said, stabbing a pen in Peter’s direction, “are absolutely going to college. I didn’t force march you into two separate prep schools so you could give up and go be lazy just when it comes time for you to finish your training and start taking over the boring, mundane tasks that I do not want to do.”

“I don’t want to do them, either,” Peter said.

“Yes, and that’s why I’m paying for your college education, so that you’re beholden to me and you have no choice but to handle things like board meetings, press conferences and Pepper.”

Peter’s mouth worked. “I don’t want to handle Miss Potts.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you moved in,” Tony said with a tight smile. “That was a bad choice.”

That was met with silence, and after a moment, Tony glanced up to find Peter smiling at him. “It’s worked out okay for me,” he said.

“Yes, you’re clearly a well adjusted young man who has caused absolutely no problem for this household,” Tony groused. “Just, you know, eating your weight in pastry daily and destroying my orchards-”

“That tree was not my fault,” Peter said. “Bruce-”

“Says it was your fault, and Bruce is more trustworthy than you,” Tony said. 

“All right, but-”

There was a soft knock at the door, and Tony looked up, grateful for any interruption that he could get. “Come in and take this away,” he called. “I want this individual evicted from my library immediately.”

Jarvis slipped into the room, stopping just inside the door. “Your aunt thought you might be getting into trouble,” he said to Peter.

“Absolutely not getting into trouble,” Peter said.

Jarvis arched an eyebrow. “And are we discussing things that we were absolutely instructed not to discuss?” he asked, his voice brisk.

“Not those specific things, not specifically,” Peter said. Jarvis’ other eyebrow raised. Peter huffed out a breath. “I might have breached a subject or two, in a very roundabout way.”

Jarvis looked at Tony, who busied himself with signing whatever paperwork had been left on his desk, whether they needed a signature or not. Jarvis looked back at Peter. “You are, of course, the soul of discretion,” he said dryly. “But perhaps you should go downstairs and assist your aunt in setting the table for dinner.”

Peter’s eyes darted towards Tony, and then back to Jarvis. “I just think-”

“I think,” Jarvis said, cutting Peter off with his usual ruthless efficiency, “that we have done enough thinking for today.” He paused. “Don’t you?”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your discretion,” Jarvis said, placing a gentle hand on Peter’s back and nudging him towards the hall. “Please tell your aunt that we will be down promptly at seven.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter gave Tony one last hopeful look, which Tony did his best to ignore. 

Only after Peter was gone, the door closed firmly behind him, did he relax. “He’s not allowed to talk to me any more.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said, not missing a beat. Tony gave him a suspicious look, and Jarvis smiled, just a bit. “He’s not allowed to do many things. Unfortunately, every attempt his aunt has made to make him understand his rather unenviable position as the child of the help has been undermined by her employer.” He folded his hands behind his back, his body canting forward just a bit. “Leaving him with a sense of himself as a valued and appreciated member of the household.”

“He’s not. He’s just- He’s very convenient to blame things on,” Tony pointed out. “So I don’t like him. He just had a purpose. Scapegoat.”

“Ah, yes. Scapegoat. How could I have forgotten?” Jarvis said. “We shall lock him in the basement until you have a disaster that he can absorb for you.”

“See, you do understand how this house is supposed to run.” Tony tapped his pen against the stack of pages. “He was talking crazy, by the way, and I don’t appreciate it. Has there been gossip below stairs? Are you gossiping?” Jarvis gave him a pitying look, and Tony made a face. “I have rules.”

“Yes, but they change so often that we’ve all found it easier to ignore them until we know which one you’re planning on enforcing on a particular day,” Jarvis said. “And then apologize.”

“Those apologies better be profuse,” Tony said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Of course.” Tony scraped a hand down his face. “I cannot keep a child, Jarvis.”

“So what will you do?” Jarvis’ voice was quiet, almost gentle.

“I don’t-” Tony scraped a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Why does anyone expect me to know?” He glared at Jarvis over the screen of his fingers. “Why do you expect me to know? You, more than anyone else, know that I haven’t a clue what I’m doing from minute to minute, so why do you possibly expect me to have a plan?”

Jarvis’ lips twitched, the smallest little flicker of amusement crossing over his face. “Because you do.” Tony snorted in disdain, and Jarvis gave him a look. “You might be able to fool the others,” he said, a faint barb to the words, “but I’ve known you from the time you were in short pants, and despite how much time you spend denying it, you do have a plan.” 

“Do I,” Tony said, and it wasn’t really a question.

“Yes,” Jarvis said. He reached for the visitor’s chair, dragging it away from the desk and settling down into it, his hands folded in his lap. “I suspect, however, that you don’t like to admit to it, because it’s easier to be praised for quick thinking and creativity under pressure than it is to be blamed for a precise battleplan not working out to quite your satisfaction.”

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. He leaned back in his chair. “Well, who doesn’t like praise?” he asked, his voice flippant.

“Despite my best efforts, you never seem to have gotten comfortable with it,” Jarvis said. He smiled, just a little. “What are you going to do about DJ?”

Tony’s jaw worked. “Buy an orphanage?” he asked. “Can you buy an orphanage? Is that something that goes on the open market?” 

“I suspect we won’t find a listing in the financial pages,” Jarvis said. “But I also suspect that Miss Potts has ways around such a trifling problem.” He leaned forward, picking up the decanter from the corner of Tony’s desk. He flipped over two tumblers and filled each one with a hefty dose of amber liquid. He offered one to Tony. “But I don’t think that buying any number of orphanages will solve your problem, sir.”

“Really.” Tony took the drink from him, but made no effort to drink it. “And what is my problem?”

Jarvis considered him over the rim of his tumbler. “That there is one very particular little boy who needs you.”

Tony’s stomach rolled over. “I don’t want to be needed, it’s, it’s very stressful, that’s not something I want to handle, I don’t think that’s something I can handle.”

Jarvis nodded. “Then will you send him back?” he said, his voice soft. “For however long it takes you to buy an orphanage? Will you-”

“I don’t know,” Tony said.

“A choice has to be made, and-”

“Fine.” Tony slammed the glass down on the desk, sloshing brandy over his fingers. He ignored that, and took a deep breath. “Fine. You want a plan? Fine. I have a plan.”

 

Jarvis nodded. “Wonderful.” He smiled. “And what would that be?”

Tony pointed a finger at Jarvis. “You can adopt him.”

Jarvis’ lips twitched. “Sir.”

“It’s the perfect solution,” Tony pointed out. “I’ll pay for it. Of course. That’s only fair.”

Jarvis’ head tipped forward, giving Tony a chiding look from under the line of his brows. “Sir.”

“I get to stop hearing questions that I don’t want to acknowledge, let alone answer, and you get to have a new, fresh child to spoil within an inch of his life.” Tony gave a firm nod. “The other one was getting large and awkward, he’s no longer cute, it’s, it’s not a thing anymore when he shoves half his face into a blueberry pie, remember when that was cute and not just a cause for concern?”

“Sir.” Jarvis took a sip of his drink.

“Perfect solution,” Tony told him.

‘Sir.”

Tony grinned at him. “Jarvis?”

“Try again,” Jarvis said.

“I see no reason to try again, there’s not a single thing wrong with my plan,” Tony pointed out.

“Well, there’s the fact that I’m not what he needs,” Jarvis said. “But more importantly, I am, as one might say, too damn old for fatherhood.”

Tony choked on a laugh. “Lies,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Embarrassing lies. You’re a spring chicken, Jarvis.” Jarvis laughed, and Tony opened one eye, peering at him. “You should have grandchildren by now. If you hadn’t wasted your life picking up after me, you’d-” He stopped, shaking his head. “You should have grandchildren.”

Jarvis sighed. “Yes, sir. I should. I’m doing my best to accomplish that, right now, and you’re proving to be the biggest impediment to the process.”

Tony made a face. “I suspect that’s the story of your life, Jarvis.”

“It’s becoming a bit of a tired refrain, it’s true.” Jarvis took a sip of his drink. “So. What is the backup plan?”

Tony took a breath. “I haven’t figured that out yet.” Jarvis nodded, and Tony tapped his finger against the side of his glass. “What do you think I should do?” It came out more plantative than he’d expected, hollow and empty. He sounded like a child, and he hated it. “Never mind. I know what you think.”

“I think,” Jarvis said, from the depths of his drink, “that you will do what you can. And I’ve found, sir, that that is all that you need to do.”

“The bare minimum?”

“We can start there,” Jarvis agreed.

“Wonderful.” Tony took a drink, savoring the taste. “And where do we go from there?”

For a long, silent moment, Jarvis studied him. Then he put his glass down. “Sir. Do you want to be better?”

Tony smiled. “I don’t know how.”

“You just try. Every day. You try to be a bit better than you were the day before. You might not manage it every single day, but we become better by striving for it. You can. And you will.” Jarvis stood. “I do know one thing.” 

There was something ominous about how he’d phrased that. Tony considered him over the rim of his glass. “And what would that be?”

Jarvis smiled at him. “If that child is going to go back to the orphanage,” he said, his voice quiet, almost gentle. “You will be the one doing it. It will not be Miss Potts. Or Officer Rogers. Or me.” He straightened his jacket. “If you make the choice that he is better off there, than he would be here, then you will be the one to carry that out.”

The liquor burned in his mouth, and Tony made a deliberate effort to swallow. It hurt, the whole way down. “What?” he said, with a tight smile. He set his empty tumbler down on the desk. “You think I won’t?”

Jarvis smiled at him. “Oh, sir,” he said. “It’s not that you won’t. It’s that you can’t.”

Tony slumped a little lower in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “Clearly, you haven’t been reading my press clippings.” His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Or you’d know better.”

Jarvis made a slight, soft humming noise under his breath. “I’d like to think I do, sir.” He gave Tony a smile. “But I suppose we’ll see who’s right in the end.” He turned to the door. “Won’t we?”

Long after the door closed behind him, Tony was still staring at his empty glass. “Yes,” he said at last. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

*

Steve had given up on the bed by the third night.

Every night, he dragged the linens and the pillows down to the floor, and slept there, huddled at the end of the bed. And every morning, he dragged the whole mess back onto the bed. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was the only one he’d found that worked for him.

Right up until the cat stepped on his face.

“Hi,” Steve said. He pushed Furbro aside before he ended up losing an eye. Furbro tumbled onto the floor next to him, and Steve stroked his head in apology. Furbro’s head tipped, rubbing against Steve’s palm. “What’s up, cat?” Furbro blinked up at him, big golden eyes gleaming in the low light. Then he turned around and padded back into DJ’s room. A moment later, Steve heard the sound of the cat scratching at something. Curious, he pushed himself to his feet, following Furbro through the half open door.

DJ’s bed was empty. Steve took a deep breath. “Deej?” he called, his voice pitched low. 

Furbro wound his way around Steve’s ankles, then headed across the room. He stopped in front of the closet, rearing up to paw at the door. He looked back at Steve. “Deej?” Steve tapped on the door. “Can I open this?”

There was no reply, and he gave the knob a slight tug. DJ was huddled in the bottom of the closet, curled up in a ball, his face buried in his arms. Steve crouched down in front of him. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked. “Or just got scared?”

DJ raised his head, just far enough to look at Steve. His eyes were red, but dry. He didn’t reply.

“Want to go for a walk?” Steve asked. He braced his elbows on his knees, leaning into them. “We can explore a bit?”

DJ sniffed, scrubbing his the back of his wrist over his nose. “Yes,” he said, the word almost inaudible. 

“All right.” Steve straightened up, holding a hand out to DJ. “Let’s go. We can patrol together. Maybe we’ll be a little more tired when we’re done.”

DJ slipped his fingers into Steve’s, clinging to his hand. He leaned into Steve’s side. “Ready?” Steve asked, and DJ squeezed his hand. “Okay.”

They looped around the top floor first, the carpet muffling the sound of their steps, and Furbro padding along behind them. DJ trailed his fingers along the polished wood of the bannister, and Steve kept a careful eye on the gallery below them. For once, the house seemed quiet and still, and there was no movement outside. 

DJ hopped down the stairs, his feet together, his hand still held tight in Steve’s. On the first floor, he paused, his head tipping towards the billiard room. “Want to check that one?” Steve asked. DJ nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”

The room was empty, but still warm from the remains of the fire still smoldering in the hearth. Steve reached for the lamp on the side table, not sure if Tony had finished the repair work on the light fixture. DJ peered over the top of the tabletop, his fingers stroking over the green velvet. Smiling, Steve picked up a ball from the rack, rolling it across the table towards DJ. DJ caught it, rolling it back and forth between his hands.

In front of the fireplace, there was a small table, the top set with a pattern of black and white squares, and a deep drawer set in the side. Steve gave it a tug, revealing a set of carved chess pieces. He picked up the black king. “Hey, Deej. Do you remember this?” His face lit up, and he deserted the billiard table. Steve moved aside, showing him the contents of the drawer. “Want to play?” he asked.

DJ’s fingers closed on the white king. “Yes,” he said.

“All right. Let’s see if we can remember where the places go,” Steve said, pulling an armchair over for DJ. “All the pawns in front, and the bigger pieces in the back, right? Where does the king go?”

“Ah, so I see it’s fine for you to keep him up past his bedtime.”

Steve jerked upright, his heart in his throat. Tony was hovering in the doorway, his shirt open at the throat, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He reached up, pushing his hair back. “Chess?” he asked DJ, who held up a piece in each hand.

“I’m sorry,” Stevee started, but Tony was already waving him off.

“I think you’ve found the one thing in the house that neither of you could damage, even if you tried,” he said. He braced his arm on the back of DJ’s chair, smiling down at him. “Are you going to beat him?” DJ nodded. “Good. Confidence is good.”

“He might,” Steve said, taking a seat in the other chair. “He’s just learning, I have an old set at home. So he’s hard to predict.”

“I just bet he is.” Tony looked at the board, his eyes narrowing. “Can I play on your side?” he asked DJ. “You can show me your tactics.” DJ nodded, his face lighting up, and Tony smiled back at him. “Come here, then.”

He lifted DJ out of the seat, then sat down, settling DJ in his lap. “All right,” he said, as DJ relaxed back against his chest. “What are we doing here? Who are we moving? What’s the plan, Napoleon?”

DJ pointed. “Knight,” he said, reaching for it.

“A bold move, for a bold young man,” Tony said, and Steve ducked his head to hide his smile. When he looked back up, he found Tony smiling at him, his eyes warm. “Let’s see just how he handles this.”

“With a lot of confusion,” Steve said, reaching for a pawn. 

“Now, we can move this one,” Tony said, pointing to a piece. “Or we could-” DJ grabbed a piece, setting it down on the board with a great deal of force. “Or that. That’s also a move that we could, we could do that. It’s a legal move. I don’t know why we’d move there, but- We definitely can.”

 

DJ grinned up at him, giggling.

“You did that just to see my reaction, didn’t you?” Tony asked him. DJ gave a firm nod. “Also a legitimate strategy.” He looked up at Steve. “I take it that this is going to be a bit of a wild ride.”

“You have no idea,” Steve said, reaching for the board.

For a while, they just played, with Tony trying to coax DJ into making a good move. He failed more than he succeeded, but he just kept trying. “What’s our move?” Tony asked, and DJ just twisted around with a yawn, burying his face in Tony’s chest. Tony tipped his head to the side. “General?”

“I think he’s done for the night,” Steve said, even as DJ latched onto Tony’s shirt with one hand, pulling himself a little closer.

“The history books will record this act of monumental cowardice,” Tony said, reaching for a pawn. He moved it. “Luckily for you, you have an able lieutenant, and I’m here to save this army from ruin.”

Steve paused. “You don’t have to,” he said. 

Tony glanced up. “Yes,” he said, a faint smile crossing his face. “I’m aware of that.”

Steve felt his face heat. “I mean, I was only playing with him because he couldn’t sleep. I don’t care if we, you know, finish the game.”

“Oh.” Tony leaned back in his chair, one hand cradling the back of DJ’s head. “Are you surrendering, then?”

Steve’s mouth fell open. “Am I what?”

“Surrendering.” Tony waved a hand at the board. “Capitulating. Yielding to my benign rule over your lands as your sovereign and rightful lord, who will guide your life and your people with a firm but gentle hand-”

Steve cupped a hand over his face. “Fine. Reset the board, and we’ll play. Just-” He peeked out from between his fingers. “Stop talking.”

Tony’s teeth flashed in a sharp grin. “No need to reset it. We’ll play the pieces, just as they are.”

“Are you surrendering?” Steve repeated. “Because there’s no way you can win, not with what he’s left you.”

Tony’s eyes dropped to the board, and then came back up, sharp and clear, and Steve found it hard to breathe. “I can work with this.”

“You really can’t.”

This time, when he smiled, it was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. “Don’t ever underestimate me,” he said, and the words slid over Steve’s skin like a physical touch. Tony reached out, his fingers cradling a discarded piece. He tapped it against his cheek, his eyes locked on Steve’s. “It’s your move. Make it a good one.”

It took an embarrassingly long time for Steve to convince his arm to move, to reach out and select a piece. It clicked against the board, and Steve slumped back in his chair, trying to ignore the feeling of arousal that now curled low in his belly. “Your move.”

Tony smiled. “Bold,” he said, and Steve wondered if that was a compliment or not. Tony reached out, moving a pawn with a quick flick of his fingers. “Does he have a hard time sleeping?” he asked.

Steve moved his bishop, collecting Tony’s pawn. “The beds here are horrible,” he grumbled. 

Tony’s lips twitched. “That explains so much about the nocturnal movements of this household,” he said. His hand hovered over the pieces. “Perhaps we just need new mattresses.”

Steve glanced up at him. “Or better locks,” he said.

“You really think so?” Tony made a humming noise under his breath. “I don’t know. They seem to be keeping you out, just fine.” He nodded at the board. “Your turn.”

Steve moved a pawn. “Did you leave the greenhouse unlocked on purpose?” he asked.

Tony’s hand slid up and down DJ’s back, his head tipped to the side. “I’ll answer your questions if you’ll answer mine,” he said.

It felt like a trap, but Steve wasn’t sure he cared. “Fine.” He looked up. “Did you leave the greenhouse unlocked on purpose?”

Tony’s lips curled. “Yes.” He moved his queen. “Why were you so fixated on it?”

“Because it was the only door you bothered to lock.” Steve reached for a knight, and paused, his fingers not quite making contact. “Why did you lock it?”

“Bruce locks it,” Tony said. “He’s a bit paranoid, but it makes him feel better.” He braced his chin on his palm. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Steve stared at him. Tony met his gaze without blinking, those remarkable, beautiful eyes locked on Steve’s. “Did I?”

Tony laughed, soft and gentle. “Foul,” he said. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Then, no,” Steve said. “I didn’t.” He took a breath. “The orphan thing wasn’t your idea, was it?”

“Obie thought it would be a good PR move,” Tony said.

“Foul,” Steve said, his voice soft. “YOu didn’t answer the question.”

Tony smiled. “No. It wasn’t my idea. But I didn’t stop him, either, so I suppose it is my fault.” He lifted a pawn from the board, but didn’t finish his move. “What happened to his parents?”

Steve’s eyes shot to Tony’s. “His-” He looked at DJ, but DJ was still sleeping, his breathing slow and even. “They’re long gone. Why do you-” Care. The word stuck in his throat. It seemed wrong, somehow, and he didn’t know why. Probably because he was stroking DJ’s hair, and he didn’t seem to know he was doing it. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I need to know if they’re coming back for him,” Tony said. He set the pawn back down. “So what do you mean by ‘long gone?’ Did they leave him, or are they…”

His voice trailed away. Steve shook his head. “They’re not coming back,” he said. He moved a piece, and he wasn’t even sure what it was. “If they’re still alive, they’re telling themselves that he’s better off where he is then where they are. If you can’t feed your kid, then it’s better, you tell yourself that it’s better. At least in a home like Hammer’s, they’ll be fed.”

Tony nodded. “What was your play?”

Steve looked up. “My-”

“Pepper said you suggested DJ. That he was your choice, not hers.” Tony moved a piece, and it was somehow worse that he wasn’t looking at Steve. “So. What was your play?” He looked up. “Because you didn’t trust me, and you didn’t like me, and you told her to take him anyway.”

Steve stared at him. “You skipped my question.”

Tony smiled. “I guess I did.” He set a piece down, the base clicking against the board. “Discover check.”

“What?” Steve’s head snapped down towards the board. “Son of a-” His breath came out in a burst of laughter. “You did that on purpose. To distract me.”

One of Tony’s shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “Perhaps.”

Steve shook his head. “Well, that was underhanded,” he said, and god, he didn’t even care.

Tony smiled. “You should take it as a compliment,” he said. “It’s rare for something to require my full attention.” He yawned. “Let alone someone.”

Steve sucked in a breath, and he ached, right down to his core. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I think it’s time to put him to bed.”

“Mmm.” Tony went to stand, and Steve moved to intercept him. “I’ve got him, it’s-”

“It’s hard to get your balance, let me-”

Steve moved in, at the exact moment that Tony stood, and suddenly, they were there, chest to chest, face to face. They both froze, and Tony was there, his eyes wide and dark and Steve’s heart stuttered to a stop.

He wanted to kiss him.

For an instant, he needed the taste of Tony’s lips more than he needed to breathe, and damn the consequences. For an instant, he lost his mind, he lost his grip on reality, and Tony’s eyes were fluttering closed, his lips parting as he sucked in a breath.

Steve’s hand came up, and he wasn’t sure what he was reaching for, but before he could get there, DJ shifted between them, one leg kicking out and catching Steve in the side.

Reality hit like a bucket of icy water to the face. Steve took a step back. “Sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded raw. “I’m-” Before Tony could say a word, Steve was scooping DJ out of his hands, wrapping the boy up against his chest. He took a step back, and nearly tripped over his own feet. “I’ll put him to bed.”

“It wasn’t mate.”

Steve froze, halfway to the door. But he knew better than to look back. “Excuse me?”

“It was check,” Tony said. “Not mate.” Steve heard him take a deep breath. “Game’s not over, Steve.”

Steve nodded. “For tonight, it is,” he said, and then he was out the door and gone.

He did his best not to run. After all, the only thing waiting for him was a very hard, cold floor, and a very long night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for a panic attack, a little canon appropriate violence, and a cliffhanger.
> 
> Also I've been staring at pictures of Radio City Music Hall for a montn and it's still not right and really, I don't care anymore. So my apologies for factual inaccuracies about RCMH.

“I’m confused.”

“I’m considering making that the new family motto,” Tony said. 

Obie gave him a look over the tops of his gold rimmed spectacles. “I’m serious.”

“That was also in the running,” Tony admitted, tapping his pencil against his cheek. “Not as popular, though, since honestly-” He braced a foot on top of his desk. “No one believes me when I say it.”

“Tony,” Obie said, a faintly amused note undercutting the scolding look he gave Tony. 

“Obie,” Tony responded, in the same chiding tone.

“Would you like to explain what’s happening here?” Obie asked.

“So many things,” Tony said, scowling down at his plans. “Among other things, whoever approved this is an idiot and deserves to be fired.”

“I’m not talking about the plans, Tony.”

“Then can we narrow it down a bit?” Tony asked. “I’ve got a very full day planned, I don’t really have time for a rousing round of 20 questions.”

Obie frowned at him. “What do you think-”

A shriek of high pitched laughter cut him off, almost mid-word, and Tony glanced towards the door just in time to see a small, very bare form go streaking past. Amused, Tony pushed himself to his feet. “Hold that thought,” he said to Obie, striding across the library.

“Tony, I-”

Tony leaned out the door, almost colliding with Steve. Tony jerked back, out of the way, but Steve was already skidding to a halt, his feet scruffing along the rug. “Was that child naked?” Tony asked, because verbal confirmation seemed to be in everyone’s best interest. “Was- Is there a naked child making the laps of my halls right now?”

Steve gave him a withering look. “He’s surprisingly slippery when he’s wet,” he said. Steve was damp, too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the knees of his pants soaked through. His face was flushed, his hair wet, dripping over his forehead. It should not have been attractive, but on him, it worked.

Tony really wished it didn’t.

“The soap might have something to do with that,” Tony said, because he loved being helpful. He especially loved being helpful when it made Steve look like he was considering strangling him. Tony smiled at him, bright and easy. “You did remember the soap, didn’t you?”

 

Steve snapped his fingers in an exaggerated gesture. “Aw, shucks. Golly gee, Mr. Stark, sir, I knew we were forgetting something.”

Tony bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Excellent. Glad we could get to the root of your many failings.” He braced an arm on the doorframe. “What were-”

“We used soap,” May said, coming up the hallway behind Steve, a folded stack of towels cradled in her arms. She smiled at Tony, her eyes dancing. “I am beginning to think he dislikes clothes.”

“Yes, well, there are rules here, Mrs. Parker,” Tony said, reaching out to take a towel from her. He unfurled it with a snap of his wrist. “And I’m pretty sure this is against them.”

“Yes, as we all know, you are the only one allowed to run naked through the halls before five,” May said, her voice tart, and Tony grinned at her.

“Madam, I would never. At least not while sober.” Tony tossed the towel over his shoulder and started rolling up his sleeves.. “Officer Rogers, I believe you’ve lost control of this situation.”

“Can’t imagine what you mean, Mr. Stark,” Steve said, wide eyed and with a great deal of mock confusion. Behind him, DJ darted past, hopping gleefully along the hallway runner. Steve smiled, and he just looked crazed. “Everything seems perfectly normal from what I know of this household.”

Tony choked on a laugh. “What’s your play, Captain?” he asked. An expression flickered across Steve’s face, there and gone in an instant, that Tony didn’t understand. His eyes narrowed. “Steve? What’s the plan?”

Steve nodded, just once, a jerk of his chin. “You go left, I’ll go right,” he said, his voice clipped. “Herd him towards the stairs and Mrs. Parker.”

May nodded. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t head upstairs,” she said, her voice serene. “If you can-”

DJ ran past again, showing no signs of slowing down, and Steve made a grab for him. DJ ducked under his hand, still laughing, and Tony took off in the other direction. “Quit playing around, Rogers,” he said, running full tilt along the hall. He circled the length of the hall, keeping half of his attention on Steve as he moved, his feet flying over the carpet.

He was breathing hard as he skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs. DJ came around the corner and screeched to a halt, his bare feet catching on the polished marble floor. He stared up at Tony, his eyes narrowing. Tony raised a hand in a little wave. “Hi. Where are your pants? We have rules here. And pants, they are on the rules, so-”

He lunged for DJ, who backpedaled, almost crashing into Steve’s legs. Steve made a grab for him, and so did Tony, but DJ slipped out of reach, ducking under their arms. Tony crashed into Steve’s chest, and they both froze, face to face and chest to chest, and DJ grabbed the newel post, swinging himself around and hopping down the steps.

Tony extracted himself from Steve’s arms with more speed than grace, his face hot. “All right, you damn brat,” he said, but DJ was already halfway down the grand staircase. Without thinking, Tony grabbed hold of the bannister and boosting himself onto it in one smooth hop. 

Which was probably a mistake. He hadn’t slid down the bannister in a couple of decades, and he’d weighed a lot less the last time he’d done it. He grabbed for the wood, trying to slow himself down, or stop himself entirely, he didn’t even know, but gravity had other ideas. Tony bit back a curse as he barreled downwards, somehow managing to keep his balance right to the end. 

He landed on his feet, and he wasn’t at all sure how, but he also wasn’t about to question his luck. Jerking back upright, ignoring the way his heart was lodged in his throat, he managed a grin up the stairs. “Think you can outmaneuver me in my own house?” he crowed. “Think-”

DJ darted right past him, laughing the whole time.

Tony stood there for an instant. “Again,” he finished, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Steve came jogging down the stairs, shaking his head the entire way. “Apparently he can,” he said. He sounded incredulous, but Tony could hear the amusement under the words. He gave Tony a look. “Are you out of your mind?”

Tony considered the length of the bannister, his hands propped on his hips. “I think it’s entirely possible,” he admitted. 

“Possible,” Steve repeated.

“I’m considering the possibility,” Tony said. “I really think we have to-”

“Boys!” Mrs. Parker headed down the stairs, shaking her head. “If you’re done playing, you have a job to do. Can we please focus?”

“Going,” Tony said, and he went, and Steve was right behind him. He was pretty sure that Steve was laughing, and even more sure that Steve thought he didn’t know. He glanced over his shoulder, giving Steve a bright grin. “See what you did?”

“What I did?” Steve asked.

“Got me in trouble with the boss, if I get fired, I’m holding you responsible,” Tony said, pointing a finger in Steve’s direction. “You. Personally responsible.”

“Well, if you get turned out, I can call in a favor or two, see if I can’t get you a job sweeping the streets or moving cargo down on the docks,” Steve mused. “You think-”

“BOYS!” May called, and Tony picked up the pace.

“On it!” he yelled back, and then, in an undertone. “Where’d he go?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Steve asked.

“Would I have asked you if I knew, do you think I just enjoy having this conversation with you?” Tony asked. He spun on his heel, facing Steve as he walked backwards. “That I just find an excuse to bring up questions that-”

“Judging by how many extra words you use every time I’ve spoken to you, I gotta say, yes, it does seem that you just like the sound of your own voice,” Steve said. Tony stared at him. Steve smiled. “Could be wrong, though. Could just be that you take so long to get to the point that by the time you get there, you’ve forgotten what it was that you were trying to say.”

Tony struggled not to burst into laughter. “You fear neither god nor man, do you?”

“I got a bone to pick with both, so…” Steve shrugged. “He’s behind the tree.”

“The-” Tony turned back towards the hall just in time to see the potted plant in the corner make a scooting movement sideways. “Right. Herd him towards the billiard room?”

“I’ll go left,” Steve said, and he was grinning.

“Right,” Tony said. “The direction, as well as the agreement, I can see that you’re a little confused as to what-”

“Just go, Stark,” Steve said, and laughing, Tony went.

But nothing could be that easy. DJ saw them coming and took off running. He shot across the great hall, straight for the open door of the billiard room. Tony was right behind him, clearing the door in time to see DJ go scrambling across the floor, ducking under the pool table and rolling across the carpet. Bouncing to his feet, he grabbed the edge of the side table, tipping it over and sending the chess board crashing to the floor. Chess pieces spun in all directions, clattering across the empty fireplace. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve said, and it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t angry, it was just… Firm. Absolutely certain. And DJ froze, his eyes wide.

Tony grabbed him before the shock could wear off, wrapping the towel around DJ and sweeping him off of his feet. “Gotcha,” he said, heaving DJ into his arms. For a moment, he found himself holding a struggling, twisting mass of cloth. Grinning, he flipped the corner of the towel back. DJ blinked up at him, his face flushed and his eyes bright.

“Hi,” he said, and he sounded very proud of himself.

Tony choked on a laugh. “You are a shameless child, absolutely shameless.” He scrubbed at DJ’s face with a corner of the towel, making him giggle and squirm. “Where are your pants?”

DJ considered that. “Upstairs.”

“Right, of course, how foolish of me to ask.” Tony grinned at Steve over DJ’s head. “Did you know his pants were upstairs?” he asked.

“Well, that is where we left them,” Steve said. He leaned over, picking the table up. “DJ, you could’ve broken something.”

“You’re probably going to break a lot of things,” Tony told DJ. “There are a surprising number of breakable things in this house.”

Steve paused, his expression very disapproving. “Tony-”

“Give me one good reason I should still take you to the movies tonight,” Tony said, deliberately away from Steve. “One good reason.” DJ flopped forward, his head tucked against Tony’s shoulder. Tony tried not to laugh as DJ peeked up at him, his face sad. “All right, that is a very effective argument. However, I refuse to be seen in public with a boy who has soap in his hair. How will we be handling this?”

“I’ll take him, sir,” May said, striding through the door of the billiard room. 

“I can-” Steve started, as May scooped DJ out of Tony’s arms.

“You cannot, you have your own bath to handle, and Miss VanDyne will be most upset if you don’t wear the suit she sent over,” May said, her smile tempering the stern words. May kissed DJ’s forehead, her expression full of warm fondness. “Hello, you wicked boy. Causing such trouble.” Her mouth pursed. “There shall be no dessert for you tonight.”

“Yes, because he’s going to be eating his weight in candy at the theater,” Tony mumbled under his breath. May gave him a look, and Tony tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking forward and backward on his heels. “Am I wrong?”

“You are undermining my authority,” May said, her voice very stern, and Steve smirked at Tony from behind her back.

Tony resisted the urge to make an obscene gesture in his direction. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

May nodded. “And as for you, Officer Rogers, perhaps you should be going?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said, and when May turned towards the door, Tony wiggled his fingers in Steve’s direction in a little good-bye wave. DJ, peeking at him over May’s shoulder, giggled. Steve arched an eyebrow, but before he could retaliate, May nudged him towards the door. Steve threw his hands in the air, a clear gesture of surrender. “I’m going!”

“Not fast enough. And as for you, Mr. Stark-” She glanced back at him. “If you’ve so much extra time on your hands, perhaps you can pick up the mess you’ve made in here.”

Grinning, Tony stuck out a foot, nudging a chess piece under the table. “The mess I made?” he asked.

“You should’ve stopped him before he got this far,” May said. “Pardon me, Mr. Stane.”

Obie, who’d just stepped into the billiard room, moved out of her way. “My apologies, Mrs. Parker.” He nodded in Steve’s direction, but his attention was focused on Tony. “Officer.”

“Mr. Stane,” Steve said. His eyes darted from Tony to Obie and back, but he followed May out of the room.

Obie shut the door behind them. “Well, that was quite the spectacle,” he said, his voice quiet.

Tony paused, his fingers just brushing up against a chess piece. “Does it count as a spectacle if no one actually sees it?” he asked, his tone flippant. He scooped up the black king, tossing it back on the table before chasing down a few pawns. “It would seem to me that I need an audience to properly make a spectacle of myself.”

Obie crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw it.”

Tony pointed a bishop at him. “And you’ve seen me do far worse, so I’m not certain why you’re surprised.” He straightened up. “What difference does-”

“Why is the child still here?”

Tony froze, his fingers flexing on a piece until it bit into his skin. He set it down, the base clicking softly against the tabletop. “The week’s not over,” he said, just as quietly.

Obie nodded. “When will he be going back?” he asked.

“Maybe never.” Tony took a deep breath, looking around for more pieces. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Obie sank into a chair, and it was the one that Steve had sat in last night, and for some reason, Tony resented that. Obie reached out, picking up a piece from the table, rolling it between his fingertips. “Tony.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Tony said, and he did his absolute best not to let that sound like a lie. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Look, it’s not-” He shook his head. “It’s not a big deal.”

Obie’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a big deal?” he repeated. “Tony. You’re talking about, what, letting him stay? For how long?” Tony didn’t reply, and Obie heaved a sigh. “Tony. I think you need to be very careful about this. When you have your own children, this will make things complicated. Heaven forbid the child-”

“DJ,” Tony said, and Obie stopped. Tony forced a smile onto his face. “His name is DJ.”

Obie nodded. “Yes, of course.” He smiled. “DJ. What happens if he thinks that he’ll be in the line of inheritance? Or, worse, what if his real parents show up?”

“I’m not sure what we’re worried about here,” Tony mused, the words tart. “Is it his hypothetical parents, or my hypothetical children?”

Obie’s smile went tight, but his voice was still quiet. “You’ve always had difficulty being-” He stopped. “Practical about some things, Tony. So many things have come so easily to you, so many things that you’ve managed to do, that no one else would’ve been capable of. You are a singular, unique man, but there are some things, that perhaps…” He sighed. “Perhaps there are some things you’re just suited to be.”

Tony focused on setting the chess pieces back on the board, avoiding Obie’s eyes. “I mean, there’s many things I’m not suited to be,” he said. “Can we narrow it down?”

“I loved your father like a brother,” Obie said. “You know I did. And I admired what he did, how he moved mountains, how he made entire industries from next to nothing.”

Tony’s fingers lingered on the black king, rotating it in slow circles on its base. “He was a hell of a businessman,” he agreed. “And he knew how to make money.”

“He was brilliant,” Obie said. “And unlike many brilliant, technical men, he never let anyone take advantage of him. He made money for himself. For his family. For his legacy. He raised this family from next to nothing to a powerhouse in a single generation. He was-”

“Can we skip the history lesson?” Tony asked. “I’ve heard it before.” He jerked his hand back, and the king toppled over, clattering to the board. “Dad liked to give me this exact lecture whenever I didn’t measure up, and you know it.”

“Well. You weren’t the only one who didn’t measure up,” Obie said with a wry smile. “I heard a version of it myself.”

“Yes, but he kept his best material for me.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there a point to this?”

“You need to think about this rationally,” Obie said. “You need to stop being so-” He shook his head. “Emotion cannot factor into this, Tony, it’s-”

“I am rational, and-”

“He’s simple, Tony,” Obie snapped, and Tony stopped, blinking. Obie’s mouth worked, his face suddenly florid. “He’s of inferior genetic stock, and he’s- He’s simple.”

“He’s actually not,” Tony said, but Obie didn’t seem to hear him. 

“You do have a legacy to think of, your father did everything possible to raise the Stark name to be one that was respected, and you could destroy that in one poorly considered sentimental gesture,” Obie said. “Is that what you want? Is that really how you want to repay your father for everything he did for you, everything he left you?”

Tony took a deep breath. “He’s not simple,” he said, and Obie threw his hands in the air. “He’s not. He’s almost done with his clock, did I tell you that? Put it back together, without instruction, without plans, by memory, it’s-”

“Tony.” Obie scraped a hand over his face. “He can barely string two words together, and you’re seriously considering, what, having him brought up as a pet project?”

“Even if he was, I’m not sure why it matters,” Tony said. He tossed a few pawns onto the table. “He’s a child. His intelligence, or lack of it, really shouldn’t determine if he’s worthy of being-” He stopped, not sure how to verbalize it. “He deserves a family, because-”

Frustration overwhelmed him. “Because I said so,” he finished, and it was stupid and childish and he didn’t care. If there was one thing his father had taught him, it was that Starks made their own reality. The rest of the world be damned. If he wanted to do it, he did it, and to hell with anyone who said differently.

He looked at Obie. “I know you loved my father. Maybe more than I did, because, after all, you knew him better than I did,” he admitted. “And you’ve always done your best to protect his memory, his legacy. And I appreciate that, I do.”

Obie heaved a sigh. “But?” he prompted.

“But he’s dead,” Tony said. “And the list of things I’ve done that he wouldn’t have approved of starts about a mile and ten years back. I’m not living for for what he wanted, Obie. I can’t.”

“You mean, you won’t,” Obie corrected.

“I mean, I haven’t decided what I’m doing, but for now, DJ is here and when I figure out what I’m doing, I’m sure I’ll let you know, but that’s something I have to decide on my own,” Tony said. He scowled down at the empty spaces on the chessboard. “Where the hell have the rooks gone? Were they even here to begin with?” He crouched down, peering under the billiard table. “Do you see them?”

“Let the staff find them,” Obie said. “Unless you’ve forgotten why you have staff.” 

Tony looked up, startled by the ugly note in his voice. “Excuse me?” 

Obie shook his head. “You don’t listen to me, but you listen to them, don’t you?” he asked. He surged to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table had enough to make the pieces shift on the board. His broad fingers went white around the knuckles with the pressure, his shoulders hunching forward. “You’ve always let your servants get above their station, every single one of them needs to be reminded of their place, and it should be done immediately.” He stabbed at the chessboard, the movement short and violent. “And if you can’t do it, I will, Tony.”

Tony faced him, his chest tight. He took a deep breath. “Obie. I am very thankful for everything you’ve done for the company, and me. Because God knows, you were dedicated to Dad, and you’ve been dedicated to me. To StarkMunitions, and even though you thought it was a mistake, you followed me right into StarkIndustries, with every bit of loyalty and enthusiasm that I could hope for.”

He leaned over, collecting a rook from the base of the chair, where it had ended up. “But if you want to talk about hired help getting ideas above their station-” He set it down, gently, so, so gently, into its spot. “The same would apply to you.”

He looked up, and Obie’s face was pale now, his lips almost white. Tony smiled. “I know you’re trying to protect me. You always have.” His head tipped to the side. “But if I catch you interfering in my household, we’re going to have words, and you will not enjoy it.” He met Obie’s gaze straight on. “Do we understand each other?”

For a long moment, Obie just studied Tony, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Never doubt that you are your father’s son,” he said, his head falling forward. He took a step back from the table, and leaned over. When he straightened up, there was a rook in his fingers. He held it out to Tony. “Some days, you are his spitting image.” 

Tony bridged the space between them, taking the piece from his hand. “Even I can rebel once or twice a decade,” he said. He considered glossy black surface of the rook, his thumb sweeping along the clean lines. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Not yet.”

Obie nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Well. When you figure it out, do let me know what your plans will be.”

“Right now, my only plans are to see a movie tonight,” Tony said. He paused, a wry smile twitching the corners of his lips. “If everyone finds a pair of pants, of course.”

“All the best places do have a dress code,” Obie agreed. He paused. “Tony. Have you considered what will happen if you do keep this child, and you can’t handle him?”

Tony turned his attention to straightening the chessboard. “Well, the Stark family has a tradition for what to do when that happens,” he mused. “I think it’s called boarding school.”

Obie burst out laughing. “There is that,” he said. He reached out, slapping Tony on the back. “Your father would be proud.”

Tony smiled. “I’m sure he would.” He took a step back, studying the board. Then, not really sure why he was doing it, he reached out, plucking one of the white knights from the board. He rolled it back and forth between his fingers. “I’m sure he would.”

He headed for the door, slipping the piece into his vest pocket. “Now. What were we talking about?”

*

Justin Hammer was a trying man under the best of circumstances. The middle of the Grand Foyer of Radio City Music Hall twenty minutes before the show was due to start was not the best of circumstances. With the crowd pressing in at all sides, and more people pouring in off the street with each passing moment, he was inescapable.

Tony looked like he really, really wanted to escape.

“Now, Tony, can I call you Tony?”

“Is there any way to stop you?” Tony asked, his voice just barely polite. Steve choked on a laugh, and when Tony gave him a look out of the corner of his eye, he managed a benign smile.

Hammer, for his part, burst into laughter, a little too loud and a little too sharp. Even in the crowded space of the lobby, heads turned in his direction. “There's that famous Tony Stark humor!” Hammer said, his hands propped on his hips. “Amazing. Just amazing.”

“I've never been funnier,” Tony agreed. He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out a pocket watch. “Ah. How unfortunate, it's almost time for the show to start.” He snapped the watch shut with a flick of his fingers. “If you'll excuse us?”

“Right!” The hint sailed over Hammer's head with about a foot and a half to spare, and he started fumbling in his own pockets. “Now, where did I put that ticket?”

Tony met Steve's eyes, his expression almost desperate. Steve gave him an innocent look. Tony's jaw went tight. 'Help me,' he mouthed, something uncomfortably like affection stirring in his chest.

“Shame it's starting so soon,” Steve said. He made a show of glancing over his shoulder, as if looking to see if they were being observed. It was enough to make Hammer shuffle in a step, sensing a secret on the offering. Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “There's a bar, not far from here, where the chorus girls go, after the show.”

Hammer's eyebrows jerked upwards. “Really.”

Steve gave him a sage nod. “Well, so they say. I've never been, myself.”

Hammer leaned in; the possibility of doing something exclusive had him hooked. “Really,” he repeated. “And why not?”

“There's a password,” Steve said. “Leftover from the Prohbition days, I suppose, but even though anyone can get in, if you don't have the password, the barman won't let you into the back rooms.” He locked eyes with Tony. “I mean, fella like me wouldn't have the password.”

Hammer immediately looked at Tony, and Tony's eyes narrowed. “Such a shame to miss the movie,” he said. “I couldn't, of course, what would it look like, I bring these boys here, and then immediately leave? People would notice.” He smiled. “No reason the two of you couldn't get along, though. Be a nice break from your usual grind.”

Steve nodded, doing his best to look disappointed. “I would, but it'd mean my job if I'm caught in a bar when I should be watching you.”

Hammer's shoulders slumped, and Steve set the proverbial hook with a smile. “But if I'm here, maybe Happy...” He let the words trail away, leaving the rest to Tony.

Tony didn't miss a beat. “Well, we can ask.” He leaned back. “Happy!

Happy, who was hovering at the candy counter with the boys, looked up. “Coming, boss.” He slipped a few coins to one of the boys, setting of a round of cheers, then came jogging over to Tony. “Whatcha need?”

Tony made a show of digging in his pockets. “You mind going and having a beer instead of staying for the show?”

Happy grinned. “Never going to turn down a drink,” he said cheerfully. “Especially if you're paying, boss.”

“Good.” Tony pulled a few bills from his wallet and folded them over between his fingers and thumb. “Take Mr. Hammer here, and-” He leaned in, whispering a few words into Happy's ear. Happy's eyebrows twitched, but he nodded.

“You got it, Mr. Stark.” He tucked the money into an interior pocket, straightening his jacket as he did.

“I knew I could count on you.” Tony threw an arm around Hammer's shoulders. “Such a pleasure meeting you, it's not often I get to talk to a man like you.” He glanced back at Steve. “Such a pleasure.”

Grinning, Steve caught Happy's elbow, whispering an address to him. “Just give the barman a few dollars and tell him Rogers wants this guy tucked away for a few hours. He'll let you in the back and treat you like a king.”

Happy slapped him on the back. “Can this guy hold his beer?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve said.

“All the better.” Happy straightened up. “Mr. Hammer! So you're my ticket to pretty girls and good times!” He thrust out a hand, catching Hammer's and pumping it up and down with a great deal of enthusiasm. Startled, Hammer just tried to hold on. “Knew you were a lucky fella, when I first saw you, I knew it.”

Hammer's spine straightened, his chin coming up. “Glad to be of service, Mr. Hogan. Especially when I benefit.”

Laughing, Happy wrapped an arm around Hammer's shoulders. “Call me Happy. All my friends do.”

“Right, right, of course, call me Justin.”

“Oh, I couldn't, one doesn't call one's betters by their first name, me Ma'd be rolling over in her grave,” Happy declared, and just like that, he was maneuvering Hammer through the crowd with an admirable sort of grace. In a minute, they were absorbed by the crowd and gone.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thank you," he said, and he sounded exhausted. "It is as if God created that man specifically to enrage me."

Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling. "That's... A fairly common opinion, actually," he said. Tony gave him a look, and he shrugged, unrepentant. "You get used to him."

Tony's hand fell back to his side. "How."

Steve choked on a laugh. "I hear alcohol helps," he admitted. "Which is why we've sent Happy to a bar."

"Odds are even that Happy's just luring him into the nearest alley to mug him," Tony said. Steve nodded. "Really? No response to that?"

"Am I supposed to have one?"

"As an officer of the law, I would assume you're required to handle reports of potential crimes."

Steve rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "I'm finding it hard to care," he admitted, and Tony ducked his head, trying to hide a smile. "Besides, you're not exactly a reliable informant, you know."

"In that I'd like for the potential victim to get mugged in an alley?"

"In that you might've ordered it."

Tony burst out laughing. "Officer, how dare you! I did no such thing!"

"Because Happy had the idea before you did?" Steve asked.

"He's very, very good at picking up non-verbal cues, it's true," Tony said. "And he does get a raise every time he makes a problem disappear."

"Considering how many problems you have, his salary must be obscene by now."

"Not really, because I've still got them," Tony pointed out. He slanted a teasing smile in Steve's direction. "If anything, he's falling down on the job."

"Or he's a mortal man and your life is beyond his comprehension," Steve said, just to make him laugh again. It worked, and he stifled an irrational sense of pride. “Why did you even bother humoring him?” he asked. “You don't seem the sort to suffer fools gladly.”

“Because he's going to have to sign the paperwork for DJ,” Tony said, and Steve paused. Tony looked at him, his face unreadable. “Won't he?”

“Suspect you're right,” Steve said. And he wasn't thinking about that. Instead, he looked back at the candy counter, where DJ, surrounded by the other boys from Hammer's, was considering the possibilities. Steve did a quick headcount, and came up short. “We're missing one.”

Tony stared at the boys, all of them jostling for space and nearly bouncing off one another. “I'm going to have to take your word for that,” he said at last.

“Billy,” Steve called, and the tallest of the boys turned. “Where's Seamus?”

“He wanted to look at the arty things,” Billy called back.

“Right,” Steve said. He looked at Tony. “I'll wait until Pepper and Rhodey are back, then I'll go find him.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Dealing with the hall management will take forever. Go find him.”

“I don't want to leave you alone,” Steve said.

“I shall surround myself with orphans,” Tony said. Steve opened his mouth, and Tony gave him a long suffering look. “I will be fine on my own for five whole minutes, Steve, but if we come back short one child, I have no doubt that Hammer will charge us full price, so-”

Steve shook his head. “Stay here,” he said. Tony waved him off, and he took a deep breath. “Are you going to-”

“My hand to God, I shall be here when you return, whole and unharmed and surrounded by small, well sugared children,” Tony said. “You may go now.”

“Oh, may I?” Steve asked, and it wasn't as frustrating as it should've been. Probably because Tony was smiling at him, that slight, lopsided smile that he always wore when he was at his most insufferable. Steve told himself, very firmly, that it wasn't attractive.

He didn't really believe it, but he could at least try.

Tony made a show of checking his watch. “You're going to miss the show at this rate,” he pointed out.

“Keep at me, and I'll go fetch Hammer back instead of Seamus,” Steve said, and before Tony could come up with a reply to that, he turned, heading through the crowd. “Stay here.”

The grand foyer of Radio City Music Hall was a cavernous space, built to awe and impress. Right now, every inch of the space was packed, and people were still pouring in, families in well-mended coats and carefully polished shoes, every one of them clinging tight to the StarkIndustries tickets that had gotten them past the staff manning the doors.

Despite the crush, Steve located Seamus without much difficulty. The red-headed boy was staring up at a small inset mural, his freckled nose wrinkled. “You shouldn't wander off,” Steve said, catching his attention.

"I never knew you could clean up so good,” Seamus said, giving Steve a gap-toothed grin. He made a show of looking around, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. "Where's the dame you're trying to impress?"

Steve rolled his eyes, telling himself that he wasn't as hot as it felt. The suit that Miss Van Dyne had sent over fit him like a glove. Not that he'd expected anyone to notice. Certainly not Tony, who was used to people wearing things that, well, fit properly. "You scared her off," he said. "Can you at least button your shirt properly, Seamus?"

Seamus considered that. "Nah," he said, and Steve reached for his collar. Seamus tried to fend him off, but Steve was faster than him, bigger than him, and distinctly more determined than him. A moment later, the boy scrambled out of reach. "Geez, get off!"

"Yeah, why would I possibly want you to look presentable?" Steve asked, cuffing him lightly on the side of the head. Laughing, Seamus fended him off, waving his fists like a prize fighter. "Let's go. Everyone's waiting.”

That won him an elaborate shrug. “We'll catch up.”

"Helpful." Steve caught Seamus by the shoulder, turning him around and nudging him away from the stairs. "Did Hammer bring everyone?"

"Kickin' an' screamin' the whole way," Seamus said cheerfully. “Hiself don't like being outmaneuvered.”

"I'm surprised he came at all,” Steve said.

“Well, accordin' to Billy-”

“A font of wisdom, if ever there was one,” Steve said, ducking around an elderly couple.

“Ain't saying he's always right, but he's got ears everywhere,” Seamus pointed out. “But he said a big, cheerful looking fella came calling yesterday, and made Mr. Hammer quite the offer.”

“Really.” And that explained why Hammer and Happy hadn't needed an introduction. Steve wondered if it had been Pepper or Tony that had set it up, and what, exactly their offer had been.

Watching Seamus stare up at the foyer, his expression awed, Steve wasn't sure he cared.

Back at the candy counter, Rhodey and Tony were deep in conversation, DJ leaning against Tony's legs, his face a bit tense. But Tony was stroking his hair, and he seemed comfortable enough where he was, sheltered from the crowd.

Pepper, for her part, was smiling down at the boys who were crowding around her, her face amused. “Shove off, all of you,” Steve said, cutting through the crowd. “Let the lady breathe.”

“Don't you worry, Officer,” Billy said. “I'm keeping the rabble at bay, aren't I, Miss Potts?”

“Oh, brilliantly,” she agreed.

“Billy,” Steve started, just as Seamus said, “Oh, is she the reason why you're dressed all fancy?”

“No,” Steve said. “Billy-”

“Then where's the dame?” Seamus asked, his hands on his hips. “You wouldn't put that suit on for no reason.”

Steve's face felt like it was on fire. “Billy-”

"It's fine, Officer Rogers. I'd like to think he's a friend of mine," Pepper said, as Billy dipped a low bow over her hand, doffing his cap with a flick of his wrist. She struggled to keep a straight face as he gave her a theatrical kiss on the knuckles. "And quite the gentleman."

"He thinks he is," Steve said, catching the boy by the collar of his shirt. "Okay. That's enough, Romeo."

Billy gave a hopping skip sideways, his feet pedaling comically in midair. "I'm workin' here, officer! Why can't you let an honest fella make an honest living without facin' this kind of harassment?"

Steve stared down at him, torn between amusement and complete disbelief. Behind him, someone was laughing, and he didn't know if it was Rhodey or Tony. "You're something else, you know that?"

The boy straightened his threadbare vest, his chin coming up with a smirk. "A right businessman, that's what I am, and you oughta respect that."

"I oughta toss you into the street is what I oughta do," Steve told him.

"Officer, I'm shocked." The boy did a quick sidestep around Steve, his feet flying across the carpet in a wild sort of softshoe. "Shocked, I say. You're-"

"How old are you?" Tony asked. He was struggling not to smile, his eyes dancing.

The boy snatched his hat back off of his head, holding it in front of him in both hands "Fifteen next year, Mr. Stark, and an old fifteen it'll be."

Tony nodded. "Come see me next year. I could always use a businessman of your..." He chuckled. "Unique talents."

Billy's grin stretched. "Did I say next year? I meant next week."

"Good try," Steve said, making another grab for his shirt, and Billy ducked under his hand, popping back up on the far side of Pepper. Steve gave him a look. "Billy."

The warning was very clear in his voice, and the boy held up both his hands. "I think I hear one of the little ones callin' me," he said, his eyes dancing. He gave Pepper a wink and a cheeky grin, and took a couple of hopping steps backwards. "Still your humble servant, Miss Potts, you need anything, you talk to me first, understand?"

"How could I forget?" she asked, her eyes dancing. She looked at Tony. “If you’re done with your hiring, we should be heading in?”

“Happy’s off getting a drink,” Tony said, ruffling DJ’s hair. “Do you want to stay with the other boys?” he asked, and DJ nodded. “Then we’ll go with Steve and the others, and meet you at the end of the movie.”

Pepper frowned at him. “Are you-”

Tony’s head bobbed towards Rhodey. “Rhodes, you’ll keep an eye on Miss Potts?”

Rhodey nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“Officer-” Pepper started.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Miss Potts,” Steve said, and she nodded.

“Then I’ll leave him in your capable hands,” she said.

Steve wished that was the case. “We’ll see you after the film.”

*

The song and dance before the movie was enough to enthrall the boys within a matter of minutes. Tony, for his part, had more fun watching them than the chorus girls. Next to him, DJ bounced in his seat, his hands braced on the edge of the cushion. Every so often, Tony bumped his foot against DJ’s, and DJ would bump back, even if his eyes never left the stage. 

At the far end of the row, Steve was leaning forward in his seat, his eyes bright, looking almost as excited as his young charges. Every so often, Tony would catch him swaying back and forth in time with the music, his feet tapping along with a great deal of enthusiasm. Tony watched him out of the corner of his eye, doing his best to be subtle about it.

He wasn’t a subtle man, but luckily for him, there was nothing subtle about Radio City Music Hall.

As the last song came to an end, the dancers taking a well deserved bow, the boys burst into applause, stomping their feet and cheering. Someone blew a sharp, enthusiastic whistle, and DJ flinched, his hands coming up to cover his ears. Tony, clapping politely along, gave him a curious look. 

He looked up, but for once, Steve was oblivious to what was happening. Tony reached for DJ’s shoulder. “What’s-”

But the lights were dimming, the mammoth space of the theater going dark, and DJ rocked back in his chair. Tony squinted at him through the gloom, but the movie was starting now, the light of the projector flickering over the crowd. All around the massive auditorium, people were shifting in their seats, excited murmurs and applause drowned out by the sound system roaring to life.

DJ lost it.

For an instant, Tony was frozen in place, caught too off-guard by the sudden meltdown to process the situation. DJ was curled into a ball, his fingers clawing at his ears, a thin, high pitched shriek pouring out of him. Tony stared at him, shocked into immobility.

Then it sank in; something was badly wrong. This wasn’t a child throwing a tantrum. This was a child in pain.

Tony scopped DJ out of his seat, heaving him up into his arms. DJ twisted in his grip, his body a live wire of panic, and Tony just concentrated on holding onto him as he slipped down the row to the aisle. Steve was on his feet, his face tight, and Tony shook his head. “Stay here,” he said.

“I can-”

“Stay with them,” Tony said. “I’ve got him.” Without even looking back, he hustled up the aisle, his head up, his jaw tight. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see individual faces, but he could see the heads turning as he stalked past. He ignored them, his jaw getting tighter with every step.

The usher threw the door open ahead of him, and Tony shot through it, blinking at the bright lights of the foyer. “I need somewhere quiet,” he said, his words brisk. “And private.”

The boy was already nodding. “Yes, sir, Mr. Stark. There’s a lounge not far from here, this way, please.”

The trip was mercifully short, barely a minute later, the boy was opening a door, letting Tony slide in. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

There was a chaise inside, far enough from the door to muffle the sounds from the foyer. Tony headed for it. “A cup of water, please,” he said. The boy nodded, and disappeared back through the door. Left alone, Tony lowered himself down onto the chaise cushions. “All right,” he said, trying to sound calm. “All right. We’re all right. You’re all right. You’re safe.”

The words didn’t really make sense, a nervous, uneven rattle of syllables. He talked for talking’s sake, instinct driving him on. DJ was still crying, but it sounded normal now, just an exhausted, frustrated child. He pressed his face against Tony’s shoulder, burrowing into the fabric. Tony stroked a hand up and down his back, smoothing his hair, patting him gently when his breathing hitched.

Tony waited it out, the best way he knew how.

There was a soft, hesitant tap on the door, and then the usher peered inside. “Sir? I brought-”

“Thank you,” Tony said, holding out a hand. The boy handed over the cup, his fingers shaking hard enough to make the surface of the water vibrate. Tony gave him a reassuring smile. “Can you watch the door for us?”

The usher nodded. “Yes, Mr. Stark.” Seemingly happy to be given a task he could accomplish, the boy darted back out, letting the door shut softly behind him.

Tony held the cup up. “Want a drink?” he asked, his voice soft. “It’ll help. I promise.”

DJ stared up at him, his eyes and nose red. His grip wasn’t steady, so Tony held onto the cup for him, guiding it to his lips. DJ drank, a few quick, greedy gulps, before pushing it away, his head falling back on Tony’s shoulder. But he was calming down now, and Tony let him, waiting until the sobs tapered away to rough gasps.

“Better?” he asked.

DJ’s mouth worked, but he couldn’t seem to manage a word. Instead, he just nodded, his face exhausted. Tony considered him. “What happened?”

DJ pushed out of his arms, scrambling down to sit next to him on the couch. Tony offered him the cup, and this time he took it, wrapping both hands around it. He took a drink, letting the cup linger against his lips, as if that could ward off any further questions.

Tony took a deep breath. “Do you know what a diagnostic is?”

DJ glanced up at him,, his eyes huge, dark holes in his pale face. Tony waited, letting him process, until he finally shook his head. Tony nodded, leaning forward in his seat. “The things we make, the machines, they’re big and complex,” he said, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Engines. Generators. Things like that. And complex things fail in complex ways.”

He glanced up at the ceiling, at the crisp, clean lines of the room and the walls. “And sometimes, everything on the surface looks fine. There’s no way to know if a tiny little part, buried deep down inside, is what’s causing the problem. Or if there’s two, three, ten gears that are misaligned. You can’t just assume you know why something’s not working. Even if you fixed a problem yesterday, and it seems like this is the same problem, you can’t-” He waved a hand through the air. “You can’t assume. So we do a diagnostic.

“It means we go through everything, step by step, line by line. We check every little piece, every wire, every place where things could slip. No matter how deep, how hidden.” He glanced at DJ. DJ stared back, his breathing still coming in slow, ragged bursts. Tony reached out, tapping him on the nose. “So we stop. Stop everything.”

DJ’s eyelids fluttered, his lips parting. “Stop,” he repeated, fighting the word the whole way.

“Stop,” Tony agreed. His fingers flexed, and he folded them together to keep them still. “And figure out what’s wrong.” His head tipped to the side, holding DJ’s gaze. “I’ll ask you questions.” DJ’s face went tense, and he rushed on. “Easy questions. Yes and no questions. All you have to do is think about what I’m asking, and then nod, or shake your head.” His eyebrows arched. “Can you do that for me?”

A long moment of silence, then a slow, careful nod. Tony smiled at him. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “Did you want to see a movie?”

Nod.

“Did you want to see a movie today? Tonight?” Tony said. Broad, to specific. Narrow the scope. Pull it in, degree by degree. DJ nodded again. “Did you like seeing everyone? Did you like seeing the theater”

This nod was slower. Tony nodded back. “Was this the first time you’ve seen a movie?”

Nod.

“Did it scare you?” Tony asked, and DJ went still. For a moment, he seemed to struggle, his face twisting into something like confusion, like fear. Tony tapped him on the tip of the nose. “Stop,” he said, and DJ’s face relaxed. “Bad question. Let me try again.” He rocked forward, trying to find the right way to phrase it. “Did it startle you?”

DJ nodded, with enough force to shift him forward in his seat. 

Tony smiled. “Okay.” His finger tapped against the angle of his knee. He thought about how DJ had folded in on himself, his arms wrapped around his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “Was it too loud?”

Nod.

“Too close? Too big?” DJ nodded. “Was it too-” Tony stopped, trying to find the way to phrase it. “Was it too much, all at once, for you to handle?”

The relief on DJ’s face was answer enough. But he nodded anyway.

Tony’s head bobbed. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, and DJ went still. Tony smiled at him. “We can. I came here for you. I like movies. I want you to like movies, too. And if this is-” He patted the seat next to him, the plush cushion giving easily under his fingers. “And if this is too much for you right now, than that defeats our purpose for coming here.

“We can leave. We can come back later. Another time, or to a smaller theater, or I can build a theater, the screen wouldn’t be a problem and the camera would really be the only problem, if we were-” DJ was staring up at him, his brow furrowed, and Tony pulled himself up short. “We can go. I won’t be mad. No one will be mad, DJ.”

He leaned forward, his head tilted towards DJ. “Do you want to leave?”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the echo of the soundtrack, a faint ghost of sound that hung around them, soft and ethereal. DJ took a deep breath. 

He shook his head.

Tony smiled. “Okay. So. How do we make this better?” He kicked his legs out in front of him. “Too loud. Too big. Too many people. Too much.” He looked up, up at the ceiling above them, the germ of an idea forming in his head. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He looked back at DJ. “There’s empty seats. Up on the mezzanine, the balcony. It’ll be farther away. And there’s fewer people up there, so if we need to leave, we won’t be in the way. Likely, no one’ll even know.” He straightened up. “And-” He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it gently over DJ’s head. “There. If it’s too bright or too loud, you can make it- Make it less. You can muffle it, or make it stop entirely.”

He leaned in. “The important thing is, you can control it. You can control how this happens.”

DJ reached up, his fingers tangling in the fabric. He tugged the collar forward, over his head, until it hung like a mask in front of his eyes. He rocked to the side, peeking under the edge, and ducking back out of sight again. Tony waited, his arms folded on his knees, as DJ fumbled with the cloth. “Does that help?” he asked, at last.

DJ slipped the jacket down to his shoulders, clutching it there like a cape. “Yes,” he said, and his smile was bright and hopeful and heartbreaking.

“Do you want to try again?” Tony asked. A nod. “Upstairs?” Another nod. “Do you promise me that if you’re uncomfortable, you’ll do whatever you have to do to make it better?” This nod was slower, but firm. Tony leaned in, his forehead bumping against DJ’s. “Will you let me help?” he whispered.

DJ’s fingers closed on the front of Tony’s shirt, holding on tight. “Yes.”

“All right.” Tony leaned back. “Better?”

He nodded. “Better.”

Tony smiled. “Okay.” He stood up, tucking his hands in his pockets as DJ gathered himself, pulling Tony’s jacket in close to his sides. 

“Hey.” DJ looked up, and Tony tried to smile. “There are people,” he said, the words clumsy on his tongue, “who are going to call you weak. Who are going to say that you should be able to do things that you can’t, because they can. So why can’t you? They’ll tell you that you’re difficult, that you’re wrong, that you’re… Weak.”

He paused. Took a breath. “They’re wrong. No one’s in your head. No one knows what you have to, to handle. To bear. No one knows, just how strong you are.” He crouched down, face to face with DJ, his arms braced on his knees. “And you are. You are strong. How you handle things, how you deal with them, that’s-” 

His eyes shut. He took a deep breath. “You’re the only one who knows what you have to bear,” he said at last. “No one else will ever know that. The good ones, they’ll… Try. To understand. Some people might actually get an idea. The bad ones, they won’t bother.”

Tony forced his eyes open. Forced himself to look at DJ, no matter how much that made his chest ache, made his throat close up. “The best ones will just accept, that you know what you can bear and what you can’t. That they’ll never know, but they can believe.”

He reached out, his fingertip ghosting over the tip of DJ’s nose. “They’ll believe you are doing everything you can, and sometimes, it’s just…” His voice trailed away.

DJ’s mouth worked, silently at first, and then, at last, “Too much.”

Tony managed a smile. It felt wrong on his face, foreign. But he smiled anyway. “You are stronger than anyone knows. Don’t ever forget that.”

DJ reached out, one little finger tapping the tip of Tony’s nose. Tony wrinkled it up, scrunching his face into a squint, and DJ let out a giggle. “Better?” Tony asked. 

DJ nodded. “Better.”

Tony tapped him on the nose, once, and then twice. “Diagnostic over for now. But if you ever need another one, and we don’t figure that out, then you can do that, right?” He repeated the gesture. “One, and two. That means something’s wrong and we need to figure out what it is.”

He leaned over. “Diagnostic?”

DJ reached out, tapping Tony’s nose with one little finger. “One,” he said carefully. “Two.”

“You got it,” Tony said. He pushed himself to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Do you want to go watch the movie now?” He held out a hand, and DJ took it, his grip surprisingly strong. 

“Yes.”

“Good. Me, too.” Tony lead the way out of the lounge, matching his steps to DJ’s. Letting him set the pace. Outside the door, the usher was still waiting, his face tense, his shoulders tight. As soon as Tony pushed the door open, he sprang to attention.

“Do you need anything, Mr. Stark?”

Tony gave him a slight smile. “Thank you, but no.” He looked back towards the main staircase. “Actually. Yes. Can you go up to the Mezzanine and find us an area, near the front, that’s unoccupied? I’d like a little-” He wiggled a hand in mid-air. “Breathing room.”

The usher nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll be right back.”

“That’s fine, it’s-” was as far as Tony got; the boy was already off and running, his long legs eating up the length of the massive corridor. Tony shook his head. “Want to wait here?” he asked DJ. DJ shook his head, and Tony smiled down at him. “Me, neither. Let’s go follow him.”

Halfway to the stairs, he spotted a girl carrying a tray of candy and cigarettes. “Miss?” He gestured at the girl, who darted over, her gloved hands clasped tight on her tray. Tony smiled at her. “I need you to go find someone for me.”

She blinked up at him, all huge, dark eyes. “Yes, sir?”

“I don’t know the row, but almost smack dab in the center of the orchestra seating,” Tony said, “there’s a fella riding herd on a bunch of boys.” He held a hand over his head at roughly Steve’s height. “Big, blond. Looks like he should be in the pictures, not watching them.”

Her cheeks went pink. “I think I saw him come in, yes.”

Tony grinned at her. “I figured you might’ve noticed him,” he said. He fished in his pocket. “I need you to go up and let him know that I’m taking the kid up to the balcony. Just tell him Mr. Stark went upstairs with the boy. He’ll be worried if this one-” He dipped his head in DJ’s direction. “Doesn’t come back. He’s got the rest of the boys, so he can’t come looking?”

The girl nodded. “Yes. I can tell him. Mr. Stark took the boy upstairs,” she parroted.

“Right. Where it’s a little quieter,” Tony said. He held out a twenty dollar bill to her. “If he has a reply, will you bring it to me?”

“I’ll find you right away, Mr. Stark.” She looked at the bill, her teeth digging into her lower lip. “You already gave the whole staff a tip, Mr. Stark, I’m happy to-”

“Miss Potts gave the staff a tip,” Tony said. He caught her hand, and pressed the bill into it. “Because Miss Potts is better at these things than Mr. Stark is.” He gave her a quick smile. “I don’t want to take him back in there, so I’m trusting you’ll deliver the message.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She smiled down at DJ, who leaned against Tony’s side, his hand locked in Tony’s. “I’ll let you know right away.”

“Thank you.” Tony ruffled DJ’s hair. “Let’s go. Find some seats that suit us a bit better, all right?”

“Yes,” DJ said, one hand in Tony’s, the other still holding Tony’s jacket in place. He smiled up at Tony, and Tony smiled back.

“Let’s go, we’re missing all the good parts.”

*

DJ made it halfway through the movie before he snuggled up in Tony’s coat, his eyes at half mast. Not long after that, his breathing smoothed out, his head lolling to the side. He was sound asleep long before the credits rolled, and even the lights coming back up did nothing to rouse him.

“Hey.” Tony reached out, his fingertips stroking DJ’s hair away from his forehead. “All right, then, the movie’s done, you great waste of money..” DJ kicked out with one foot, digging deeper into the nest he’d made of Tony’s jacket. Tony caught himself smiling down at the oblivious brat. “So what’s this? You live here now? You’re not going to come-”

The words died in his throat. Home. Come home. What right did he have to say that to a child, to this child? 

And if couldn’t, what could he say?

Tony pushed himself to his feet. “You can’t stay here,” he said, because that was true. That was one thing that was true, that he could understand. That he could believe. “We can’t stay here. This is a fantasy, a fairyland. We can’t-”

He looked up at the soaring ceiling, at the gleaming arches that surrounded the stage. Down below them, the crowds were moving, people flowing from their seats and into the aisles. Everyone moved slowly, clinging to the last moments of magic. Tony supposed he could understand that.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, and that, he could manage. He leaned over, sliding his hands under DJ’s body, taking the boy’s small, slight weight against his chest. Tangled in the fabric of Tony’s jacket, DJ turned his face into Tony’s shoulder, his fingers catching on Tony’s shirt. Tony went still, shifting DJ higher into the cradle of his arms.

The weight wasn’t as foreign as it should’ve been.

Tony headed for the stairs. Action suited him. Movement. Forward momentum. He might not have known where he was going, but he was damn sure going forward.

He spotted Steve when he was halfway down the main staircase. He was a measure taller than most of the crowd, and more than that, he was surrounded by a seething mass of little boys. His head was pivoting from side to side, his face strained, his shoulders tight. Tony watched, amused, as he snagged a boy by the back of his shirt, dragging him back into line, without even seeming to notice that he’d done it.

Tony knew the moment that Steve had spotted him. In an instant, the tension went out of his frame, his shoulders relaxing, his brow smoothing out. He ducked his head, speaking a few tense words to Billy, before cutting his way across the lobby. Tony took a moment to watch him move, admiring the smooth grace with which he slipped through the crowd. All that leashed strength and surprising grace was a thing of beauty, and for all he knew that the concern on Steve’s face was for DJ, he allowed himself a moment of fantasy, allowed himself to wonder what it would be like, to have Steve be looking for him.

For Steve to be reaching for him.

“I’ve got him,” he said, still descending the stairs.. 

Steve stilled, one foot braced on the bottom of the stairs, his hands still hovering in the air. “Are you sure?” he asked, and he sounded torn. 

Tony gave him a lopsided smile. “I think you have your own problems,” he said, his voice arch. “Besides. What’s the point of a grand PR gesture if I’m not seen being properly affectionate?”

Steve’s lips twitched. “Oh, this is all a PR move?”

“You’re the one who harranged me into inviting half of New York,” Tony pointed out. DJ shifted in his arms, his legs kicking as he settled against Tony’s chest. He tucked his head under Tony’s chin, and Tony turned his head to give him more space to move. “If he drools on me, you’ll be picking up my dry cleaning bill.”

“I’ll let Jarvis know to put it on my tab,” Steve said, clearing the way for Tony as they crossed the lobby. 

“Jarvis won’t do that,” Tony pointed out.

“Which is why I’ll be telling him,” Steve said cheerfully. He stopped in front of the boys. “You little punks have anything to say to Mr. Stark?”

“Thank you for the movie, Mr. Stark,” they chorused. It almost sounded sincere.

“That was terrifying,” Tony told them.

“We have to tell Mr. Hammer we love him every day,” Billy said. “We’re good at kissing-” Steve made a grab for him, and laughing, the boy darted out of reach. “I love you, Officer Rogers!”

“Good to know. I don’t like you much,” Steve told him, setting off another wave of laughter from the kids. Steve glanced at Tony. “I need to get them to the streetcar before Hammer leaves without them.”

“Rhodey’ll be around with the car, so-”

“Stay here until I’m back,” Steve told him, and Tony blinked at him.

“Excuse me?” he asked, amused despite himself.

Steve’s face was tense. “Stay here, until I get back,” he said, and Tony arched an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Stark-”

“Get them to the streetcar before I’m stuck with them,” Tony said. To the boys, he added, “Have we stuffed our pockets with all the candy we can carry?” Laughter and a chorus of ‘yes’ answers made him smile. “Good. Now, be good for Officer Rogers.”

“We ain’t been before, why start now?” someone asked, and Steve shook his head.

“You really sassing the man who’s paying your return fare?” he asked, making a shooing motion. Laughing, jostling, the boys allowed themselves to be herded towards the doors. Steve looked back towards Tony. “Stay here.”

“Of course,” Tony said, because it was cute that Steve thought that was going to happen. Steve scowled at him, his eyes narrowing, and Tony tipped his chin towards the door. “That little redhead’s trying to steal one of the flower vases.”

Cursing, Steve shot off after the boys, and Tony wandered after them, grinning to himself. It took him a few minutes to work his way through the lobby, nodding and smiling at people as they passed, accepting stumbling, shy thanks from children clinging to their mother’s skirts and their father’s hands. 

Outside, the sidewalks were swarming with people, parents making sure that their children were bundled up against the cold, adults buttoning their coats and tugging on gloves. Light spilling from the lobby doors spilled out into the city streets, lit by the lamp posts and the cars speeding by. Despite the hour, it was busy, full of light and noise and people, the way only New York seemed to be.

Grinning to himself, Tony turned, looking towards the curb for the car. A woman with a child holding onto each her hands walked in front of him, and he stepped back, out of her way. She passed, barely glancing in his direction, and before Tony could move forward, a man stepped up, blocking his path.

His hand came up, and the light caught on the gun in his hand.

Time slowed down, Tony’s breath stilling in his lungs, his heart going silent in his chest. The barrel of a gun, was a hollow, a hole through the world, a black void, tiny and empty and infinite, and he had an instant to realize that it was going to swallow him. There was an instant of knowing. Of certainty. Of remembering.

Pain. Fear. Blood.

He could feel it again, the way his flesh tore, the way he ceased to exist, in an instant of pain that melted into nothing, that melted into a darkness that would swallow him whole.

An instant, and he knew how this would end. He's slipped through Death's fingers before, leaving a trail of blood on the sand behind him, leaving something else along with it, some shattered and fragmented part of himself.

Memory echoed through him, and something like laughter bubbled through his chest. He’d stared into the nothing in the barrel of a gun before, once before, or more, he couldn’t remember any more, he couldn’t remember anything.

He’d been here before. Except, this time he was holding a child. 

Tony moved.

It wasn’t fast enough, nothing was fast enough, time slowed down. Stopped. He felt his feet slip, then catch on the sidewalk, shoving his weight forward with every bit of strength that he had. The gun wavered, light flickering as it moved, the man stumbling backwards. There was a crack, a snap, something breaking, something coming apart, and then someone started to scream.

The screams built, pressing in on on sides, and Tony barely noticed. He lashed out with a foot, catching the man in the side of the knee, following that up with an elbow to the face. They went down, Tony stumbling to his knees as the man flailed backwards, towards the street. The gun stabilized, coming around, and Tony was on his knees, was out of space, was out of tricks.

His breath whispered out of him, a last silent prayer to some unknown deity, and folded himself down and around, putting the bulk of his shoulder, of his chest, of his body, between DJ and the next shot.

“TONY!”

His head came up, confusion sweeping over him, just in time to see Steve emerge from the crowd, a metal trash can lid clutched in one hand. Before Tony could even draw a breath, Steve was cutting between him and the gunman, his arm coming up in an easy, beautiful arc.

His fist caught the gunman square in the jaw, lifting him right off of the pavement and sending him crashing to the ground.

Steve skidded to a stop, the lid held up in front of him like a shield. “Get him OUT of here!” he said, locking eyes with Tony. “NOW.”

Hands closed on Tony’s shoulders, his arms, dragging him up, pulling DJ out of his grip. He screamed, something vicious and obscene, and it was no use, he couldn’t stop them, couldn't stop them, couldn’t stop anything, he was bleeding, he was dying-

“Boss! Boss, it’s me, it’s Happy, it’s-”

“He can’t hear you. Just move.”

 

He reached for DJ, for Steve, but he was moving, he was being moved. He let out a howl, even as the car door opened and he was dragged in, fighting the entire way. 

 

“Tony.” A hand grabbed his, fingers tangling together. “Tony. It’s Rhodey. It’s Rhodey. Look at me. You’re safe. Tony.”

Tony’s head rolled to the side, and DJ was there, his face pale. Happy was holding him, singing a soft, rough Irish lullaby, his hand cupping the side of DJ's head. Tony tried to focus, tried to think. 

“Is he all right?” In the front, a flash of red hair. Pepper. She sounded afraid and Tony didn’t understand. Didn’t know why she sounded afraid.

Why she was driving.

Rhodey’s hand was holding onto his, and there was red on his fingers, on the white cuff of his shirt. Blood, spattered across his arm, across Tony’s shirt. Rhodey’s voice, tense and sharp. “Home. As fast as you can.”

Tony didn’t hear anything else.


	9. Chapter 9

The first shot had stopped his heart.

Steve had heard more than his fair share of gunshots, both in the trenches of Europe and in the narrow alleyways of New York. He knew the sound far better than he’d like, and every time he heard it, he was always hoping, on some level, that it’d be the last one he heard.

Bucky had called that a deathwish, and Steve had never really understood why.

But he was nearly back to the theater, moving at a quick pace already, when the familiar sound reached him, followed by the sound of screams. And he’d known, in an instant, that he’d made a mistake. He’d made a mistake in leaving Tony and DJ to bring the other boys to the trolley. He’d made a mistake in letting them come to the movie to begin with.

He’d made a mistake by telling Pepper about DJ at all.

He could move fast now, faster than he should be able to move, than anyone should be able to move. Long legs, strong lungs, and he knew where he had to go. Knew the quickest way there. He didn’t much care who or what got in his way.

Steve didn’t remember picking up the trash can lid. He didn’t remember much, between echo of that shot, and the point at which he brute forced his way through the crowd, plowing through them with uncanny instinct. Knowing that they impulse for any sane man was to get away from someone holding a gun. To get away, as fast as they could.

Steve was never known for being particularly sane.

“TONY!”

He spotted him, even as the word was leaving his mouth, desperate and helpless. Tony was on one knee, but still upright, DJ clutched against his chest. Steve saw the man facing him, saw the way his arm came up, saw the light catch on the barrel of the gun, and swung.

The man went flying, his body hitting the pavement hard, and bouncing. Steve stomped down on an ugly sense of satisfaction. Through the crowd, people darting away, ducking and running for any available cover, he saw Happy and Rhodes pushing their way out from the street. “Get him out of here!” he yelled, and to their credit, they were doing that before Steve finished saying it.

Tony was fighting them, howling at them, but he was up, he was alive, and they had him. Steve swiveled on his heel, the garbage can lid up in front of him, muscle memory pulling him through. Not one. Never one. One could fail. One would fail. Something public like this, something this risky, not one, there would be more, there would be-

A tall man in a ragged coat stepped out of the alley across the street, moving forward slowly, but with deliberate purpose. Even as Rhodey wrestled Tony into the car, he was moving in their direction, his hand tucked into the front of his coat.

Steve charged him at full speed, feet flying over the pavement, body tucked behind his makeshift shield. He hit with all the force he could manage, lifting the man off the street and slamming him hard into the storefront across the way. The glass of the window gave way behind him, cracks like spiderwebs arching out from the point of impact.

Steve wrenched the gun from his hand before he could even get the weapon free of his coat. “Who sent you?” he bit out. “Who-”

“Fuck you,” the man spat at him, and Steve reared back, lifting him up and out and slamming him back against the window.

The man slumped unconscious in his grip, and Steve let him fall to the ground. Behind him, he heard the sound of tires squealing on the pavement, heard them slide, then catch. He glanced back, just in time to see the car fishtail for a moment before pulling away. He stood there, his heart in his throat, watching to make sure that they were gone.

Then he leaned over, grabbing the second assailant by the front of the coat, and dragging him back across the street towards the theater. A boy in an usher uniform jogged out to meet him. “Are you-”

“Police box,” Steve said. “Go. Call the station, we need-”

“Someone’s already gone,” the boy said, looking down at the man. He looked quesy. “An’ the manager called, from the house phone. They’ll come, right soon.”

Steve took a breath. And another. There was blood on the pavement, dark spots smeared by dozens of panicked feet. But Steve could smell it, metallic and clangy, he could nearly taste it in the back of his throat.

“Keep an eye on them,” he said, waving a hand towards the two unconscious men. “The police’ll be here soon to pick them up.”

The boy gave him a look like he’d lost his mind. “What if they wake up?”

Steve’s fingers flexed, and the metal handle on the trashcan lid twisted in his grip. “They won’t,” he said, and turned back towards the alley where the second man had been hiding.

Nothing about this was right. And he was going to figure out why.

*

“He’s waking up.”

Tony winced. Everything hurt, and he resented it. “No,” he slurred. “No, he’s not.”

Someone laughed, and Tony was going to have that person thrown to the wolves, or maybe he’d just skip the middleman and do it himself. “What happened? Where-” He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. “Where am I?”

“Stay still.” Pepper’s voice. He reached out, and her hand was there, her fingers wrapping around his, holding tight. “You’re in the infirmary. Bruce, can you-”

“I’ll ring.” Bruce. “Can you-”

“I’ve got him. Tony, do you feel up to having a drink?” Pepper asked.

“Scotch or brandy?” he asked.

“Water,” she said, her voice stern. 

He made a face, and that hurt, too. His head was throbbing. He risked opening one eye. “What… Wait. Which infirmary?”

“Upstairs,” Bruce said, and yes, he was the shadowy form by the windows. 

“Right. So not that bad.” Tony flexed his fingers, and his toes, making sure everything worked. “What happened?”

Pepper’s face swam into view, and she was beautiful, beautiful and pale, her eyes wet, her hair loose around her shoulders in a copper colored cloud. “There was… There was an attack,” she said, and that was as far as she got.

Memory hit Tony sideways, a wave of fear and adrenaline riding right behind it. The movie theater. The gun. The smell of blood and the screech of tires, and DJ’s face, almost as pale as Pepper’s, almost as-

“Where’s-” Tony fought with the word, forcing it out past a numb tongue and dry lips. “DJ. Where’s-”

Pepper picked up the silver pitcher from the table beside the bed. “He’s fine,” she said, filling a cup with water. “He’s-”

Tony pushed at the blankets, trying to shove himself upright, and Bruce lunged across the room, making a grab for his shoulder. Tony shook him off. “Where-”

Pepper caught his other arm, the cup clattering to the floor. “Tony, he’s fine. He’s upstairs with May and Peter. Natasha is keeping an eye on all of them.” He stared at her, and Pepper gave him a slight, tired smile. “He’s safe. Natasha won’t let anyone near him. You know that.” Her fingers squeezed tight, half comfort, half warning, and then she released him, leaning over to pick up the cup. “You’re the only one who’s hurt, Tony. Everyone else is just fine.”

The panic receded, just enough for him to draw a full breath. He stared at her as she refilled the cup, her grip not quite steady. But she met his eyes without flinching. “I promise,” she said, her voice gentle. “Everyone is fine. DJ is safe.” Her hand curled around the back of his neck, her fingers slipping through his hair to cradle his head in her palm. “Drink.”

He drank, two long gulps, then pushed it away, his hand shaking. “Rhodey? Happy?” he croaked.

“Rhodey’s outside, securing the grounds. Happy’s gone back to the theater,” Pepper said.

“Gone back to the-” Tony’s eyes went wide. “Rogers.” He grabbed her arm, and she bobbled the cup, nearly dropping it again. He barely noticed. “Where’s Rogers, did he-”

“Happy will find him,” Bruce said, but Tony was already kicking the blankets off, struggling towards the edge of the narrow bed.

“That is quite enough.”

Jarvis’ voice cut through the room, sharp and hard, and Tony froze, instinct born of a lifetime of dealing with the ‘obey or die’ voice kicking in. Jarvis strode across the room, a tray held easily in one hand. “I would remind you that you have been injured, and it is only due to Dr. Banner’s quick and efficient work that the situation is not far worse that it is,” Jarvis said, his voice sharp. “You will not undo his efforts in a fit of pique.”

He paused in front of Tony, his lips a flat line. “You were raised better than that.” He paused. “Were you not?”

Tony sucked in a breath, and another, and it hurt, it hurt every time his chest flexed. He looked down, at the broad swath of linen wrapped around his ribs. He touched his side, wincing at the pressure. Jarvis caught his wrist and pulled his hand away, his grip firm. “Were you not?” he repeated, and it was gentler now, comforting.

Tony looked up at him. “Yes,” he managed. And again, more certain this time, “Yes.”

Jarvis nodded. “Good. Everyone is fine. You were the only one who was injured, and you will recover, in short order.” He set the tray down on the table, the movements smooth and efficient. He looked up, and smiled, just a little, a slight flex to his lips. “Everyone is fine.”

Tony nodded, his shoulders flexing as he tried to calm his breathing. “Rogers. We don’t know-”

“Officer Rogers strikes me as a capable and intelligent young man,” Jarvis said. He smiled, just a little. “He believes in the rightness of his actions. It is only logical that he would want to be certain that the ones who hurt you, would not hurt anyone else.”

Tony laughed, and it was ugly and sharp. “They’re not trying to hurt anyone else.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone looked at him. Tony reached for the cup again, anything to avoid their eyes. “We don’t know that,” Pepper said at last.

“Yes. We do.” Tony drained the rest of the water, and Jarvis took the empty cup from him. Tony glanced down at the bandages, plucking at the edge of the gauze. “How bad?” 

Bruce sank down into the chair next to the bed, his shoulders slumping. “Well, for getting shot, not bad,” he said, giving Tony a wry smile. His hands hung down between his knees, his fingers flexing. “The shot went wide. Tore the skin, skimmed your ribs, but the damage is minimal.” He glanced down, then back up, meeting Tony’s eyes. “You’ve got half a dozen new sutures, and you’re going to be, uh, well, sore as hell for a while.”

Tony looked at Jarvis, who was wiping the condensation from the pitcher of water. “Your luck held,” he said, setting it down. He arched an eyebrow at Tony. “The same could not be said for your jacket.”

Tony managed a smile. “He shot my jacket?”

“Only because it was between you and the gun,” Bruce said. “I’d say that Jan could probably patch the hole, but…”

“But even if she could, I doubt Mrs. Parker could get the bloodstains out,” Pepper finished. She reached out, pushing Tony’s hair away from his forehead. He made a halfhearted gesture to push her hand away, which she ignored.

“She could, but it would be rather uncouth of you to ask it of her,” Jarvis said. He paused. “Especially since there we had little choice about cleaning up the vestibule.”

Tony bit back a laugh. “I take it I bled a bit on the way in?”

“You bled everywhere,” Pepper said, blunt about it. “You owe Rhodey a new suit.”

Tony winced. He took a deep breath, and everything hurt. He preferred it that way. He could focus on the ache of his ribs, instead of the chaos in his head. “Right,” he said. And, since it seemed inadequate somehow, he repeated it. “Right.” He sat up, and this time, they helped him, Pepper piling pillows behind him. He slumped back, exhausted. “The car?”

“I am confident that the upholstery is salvageable.” Jarvis busied himself with folding the blankets down. “You’ve done worse.”

Pepper tried to smile. “And if not, it’s easily replaceable.”

“Exactly how much blood did I lose?” Tony asked.

“Dramatic, but not life threatening,” Bruce said. He flicked a finger against the glass bottle hanging from the stand next to the bed. “Our usual cheerful volunteer has been hard at work.”

 

Tony eyed it. “And where is he now?”

“He declared he was done with the ‘leeches and ticks’ of modern medicine and he was going up on the roof to keep watch,” Bruce said, his voice dry.

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. “So… You took his blood and then sent him up onto the roof. Because that’s safe.”

“No, I took his blood, and then, uh, then he said he wanted to shoot someone and none of us were good candidates, so, if we wanted him, he’d be up on the roof looking for a target,” Bruce said.

Tony studied him. “I suspect him of sleeping his way through the staff,” he said at last. “Just so you know. I’m watching you for any sign that you’re succumbing to his charms.”

Bruce pressed a hand to his face. “Right. If I do,” he said, the words muffled against his palm, “you’ll, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

Tony nodded. “I absolutely will.” He pointed at Jarvis. “That goes double for you.”

“Mrs. Parker has called dibs,” Jarvis said. He sounded regretful. “I’m sure when she’s done with him, she will let the rest of us know.”

“This is becoming a house of ill repute, and I shall not stand for it,” Tony mumbled into his water cup.

“Is this just because you haven’t had a proper night out in the last year?” Pepper asked, one eyebrow arched.

Tony scowled at her. “I tried that tonight. Movie. Socializing. And you know what happened?”

“Someone shot you,” Bruce said.

“Someone shot me,” Tony echoed. 

“Perhaps you should consider a date, rather than a public relations event,” Pepper said, her voice tart. “With someone who enjoys your company and won’t attract-” She waved a hand through the air. “Bullets.”

The sudden memory of Steve, breathtakingly handsome in a perfectly tailored suit, sprang to mind, and Tony felt his face flush. Not a date. Not even close to a date. And anyways, he suspected that Steve was probably as likely to attract bullets as he was. “Any news from Happy about-”

“Tony!”

Jarvis was moving to intercept Obie before he was fully through the sickroom door. “Mr. Stane, please. As I explained, sir needs a moment-”

“And I need to see him!” Obie’s face was florid, his forehead damp with sweat. He tried to shove his way past Jarvis, who set his feet and refused to give way. Obie scowled at him, but stopped. “Tony? Tony, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tony said, holding up a hand. “Jarvis. It’s fine, let him be.” Jarvis gave him a look, but he stepped aside. 

Obie straightened his jacket with a flick of his hands, glaring at Jarvis as he stalked past. As he approached the bed, Bruce collected his tray of instruments. “I’ll just, I’ll go clean up,” he said, his head down. “If you need me?”

“I’ll call for you,” Pepper said. She reached out, her fingers just touching Bruce’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

Tony saluted him with his water cup. “Expect to repair these at least once,” he said.

Bruce’s lips twitched. “Try not to tear them tonight.”

“I make no promises,” Tony said. Once Bruce had slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him, he looked back to Obie. “I’m fine.”

Obie looked down the length of his nose at him. “I’ve brought two dozen men from the factory and the warehouses,” he said, his voice flat. “They’ve been stationed at the gates and around the grounds.”

Tony huffed out a breath. It hurt. “Obie…”

“It’s not open to discussion any longer,” Obie said. “There’s no more secrets to keep, Tony. This wasn’t a bomb tossed at the window or someone blowing out your tires out in the countryside. You were shot in the middle of the city, in front of dozens of witnesses, and not all of them are on the payroll.” He collapsed into the seat next to the bed, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief. He mopped at his brow. “It’ll be front page news halfway across the country by morning.”

Tony made a face. “And it’ll be forgotten in a week,” he said. “I’m not the only rich man who’s having problems with an angry public, Obie.”

“And the general population isn’t particularly sympathetic to those problems,” Obie pointed out. He exhaled, a long drawn out sigh. “Tony. I’m done discussing this.”

Tony gritted his teeth. “They can stay for a few days,” he said. Obie’s mouth opened, and Tony reached for his water glass. “Take the deal, Obie. It’s better than the one you’ll get if you keep pushing this.” His eyes met Obie’s. “Do we understand each other?”

Obie’s eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, a beseeching glance at an uncaring God. “Tony…”

“He’s had a long night,” Pepper said. Tony opened his mouth, and she gave him a look. ‘And so have the rest of us.” Her voice was pointed, and Tony subsided without a word. She gave him an approving nod. “Why don’t we go down to the library, Obie? Tony needs to rest, and I need to know what we’re going to do about the press.”

“Pray?” Obie suggested.

“The Virgin Mary will do her best for us, I’m sure, but Hearst prevers his tithing in cold, hard cash,” Pepper pointed out.

“A truth to be sure.” Obie heaved himself to his feet and leaned forward, grabbing Tony’s shoulder. “Stop this nonsense. This old man’s heart can’t take the strain.”

“You’re going to outlive us all,” Tony said.

“At this rate, I just might,” Obie said. He smiled, just a little. “Tomorrow. You and I need to have a talk.”

“Pepper will pencil you in,” Tony said, pushing himself a little higher up on the headboard. “Sorry, Obie.”

“I know you are, son.” With one last nod, he followed Pepper out, leaving Tony alone with Jarvis.

Tony glanced at Jarvis. “You didn’t want him here.” 

“No,” Jarvis said, and it was unusually blunt for him.

Tony leaned back, rubbing at his uninjured side. “I was going to have to talk to him eventually, Jarvis.”

“Perhaps,” Jarvis allowed. “Miss Potts did insist we contact him.” He poured another cup of water. “I am of the opinion that the wellbeing of the company could wait until tomorrow.”

There was an unexpected tartness to the words that Tony didn’t know how to handle. He looked down, at where his fingers pressed against his skin. “I think I had another..” His fingers flexed, and he let his hands fall into his lap. “Another attack.”

Jarvis paused. “Yes,” he said at last. “I suspect that might be the case.” He lifted the domed lid from the tray. “It will happen in circumstances like this.”

Tony nodded. “Right,” he said. He took a breath, and his ribs ached. He let his eyes fall shut. “I can’t-” His throat closed around the words.

“I know.” The words were soft. Gentle. Tony opened his eyes, and Jarvis was standing in front of him, a steaming bowl cradled in one hand.

Tony took it. Soft, delicate threads of pasta was piled high, tossed in a coating of olive oil and garlic, topped with rough chunks of tomato and sausage, and a dusting of finely shredded cheese. The porcelain of the bowl was warm in his hand, and Tony wrapped both hands around it, cradling it in his palms. “Spaghetti?” he asked, his lips pulling up in a slight smile.

Jarvis offered him a fork. “I spent long enough learning how to make it to your mother’s specifications,” he said, smiling back. “It seems a shame to let such a hard won skill go to waste.”

Tony took it from him. “Especially since her tastes changed with the season,” he said. “And her mood.”

“She did take some time to come around to change,” Jarvis mused. “But once she did, she embraced it.” He smiled at Tony. “Something her son inherited, I would say.”

He was tired. So tired. The act of drawing the noodles up on the tines of the fork was almost more than he could manage. The first bite took everything he had, just to manage it. He let his eyes slide shut again, focusing on the act of chewing, of swallowing, 

It wasn’t much. But it was a victory.

The second bite was easier, but just as good. “Bowl looks familiar.”

Jarvis looked up from the act of tidying something that did not need to be tidied. “Does it?” he asked, all feigned innocence.

Tony managed a lopsided smile. “Recognize the chip.” He rubbed his thumb against the indentation on the rim. “How long do you plan on using it?”

“Well, you’re the one who dropped it and made that chip,” Jarvis told him. “I see no reason to trust you with another. The same thing will just happen again, and we only have so many dishes, sir.”

Tony grinned around the tines of his fork. “I was eight.”

“I hadn’t noticed you gaining much in grace since then,” Jarvis pointed out.

“Know what I’m going to do?” Tony pointed the fork at him. “I’m going to go down to that butler’s pantry of yours and take a prybar to every single dish you have squirreled away down there. You’ll get up tomorrow morning and it’ll just be a pile of china shards. See what you do then.”

“Well, I think that would result in you eating every meal from that bowl for the rest of your life,” Jarvis said. “As we both know after thirty seconds of looking at china patterns for a replacement, your eyes will glaze over and you’ll decide that your meals are best served out of the nearest bucket.”

Tony considered that. “Well. If it’s a clean bucket.”

Jarvis’ lips twitched. “And we both know that is a lie as well.”

“This level of disrespect is stunning, you know that, don’t you?” Tony asked, but eating wasn’t an effort any more. “I ought to fire you.”

“I’ll draw up the papers immediately, sir, will you be dictating the exact terms of my dismissal to me or shall I use my best judgement?”

“Just write something up and put my signature on it, God, it’s like I have to do everything around here.” Tony dug through the noodles with his fork, chasing a chunk of sausage. “Jarvis?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jarvis pause, looking in his direction. Tony kept his head down. “Thank you.”

Jarvis paused. “Of course, sir.” 

There was a soft tap on the door, and Tony looked up just in time to see Mrs. Parker peek in. “Jarvis?” she asked. Her silver hair was drawn up in a loose braid, her glasses crooked on the bridge of her nose. “Are we up for visitors?”

Tony waved her in. “Do I get a vote in this?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Jarvis said. To Mrs. Parker, he said, “Of course. I take it you’re not alone?”

“I’ve forgotten the calling cards,” Mrs. Parker said. “A gross breach of etiquette, to be sure.” She stepped back, pulling the door open all the way. Behind her, Peter was hovering in the hall, DJ’s hand clasped firmly in his. Mrs. Parker gave them both a smile. “Go on in, but it’s well past bedtime already. We won’t be staying long.”

Tony lifted his arm to wave them in, and winced as his ribs protested the movement. He set his bowl aside, wrapping an arm around his middle. “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said. DJ tugged free of Peter, picking his way across the floor to lean against the side of the bed. Tony reached out, his fingers brushing over DJ’s hair. A tension that he hadn’t even been aware of bled out of him. 

He was safe. He was here, and healthy and safe.

“Did I-” Tony started, and there was a tremor in his voice that he hated. He swallowed hard, and tried again. “Did I scare you?”

DJ blinked. “Little bit,” he said at last.

Tony smiled. “Yes, I scared myself a little bit, too.” He pulled his hand back, letting it fall to the blankets next to him. “I’m sorry. That was cruel of me.”

DJ’s fingers picked at a loose thread of the blanket. His head was down, his eyes focused on his fingers. “All right?” he asked, his voice small.

“I’m just fine,” Tony told him. DJ nodded, but didn’t look up. Tony smiled. “Diagnostic?” he asked. DJ’s eyes came up, and Tony leaned over, as best he could. DJ reached out, the movement cautious, and tapped a finger against Tony’s nose. Once. Twice.

Tony leaned back against the pillows. “I got hurt,” he said, because that seemed to be the easiest way to say it. “But we weren’t alone. Were we?” DJ shook his head. “That’s right. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy were there, and they took care of me. Of us.”

DJ nodded. “Steve?”

Tony’s jaw flexed. “He’ll be home-” He stopped. “He’ll be back soon,” he amended. “He had to stay behind and deal with the man who tried to hurt us.” DJ blinked at him, his face unreadable, and Tony tried to smile. “But he’ll be back soon. He knows you’re here. And he’ll worry.”

That won him a nod. “Yells when he’s worried,” DJ said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tony said. He reached for his bowl. “But because I got hurt, Jarvis made me something to eat. My favorite thing.” He held it out so DJ could consider the contents. “It’s pasta with tomatoes, sausage, and cheese. Want to try it?”

DJ looked up. “No,” he said, so firmly that Tony couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Well, that’s fine,” he said, twisting the pasta around his fork. “More for me.” He smiled down at DJ. “Don’t worry. If you’re here for more than a few days, Jarvis will figure out what to make for you when you’re feeling scared or sad.” He held up his fork. “Because comfort food is a healthy way to cope with a particularly bad day.”

“There are worse ways, sir,” Jarvis said.

“Mmmm,” Tony said, around a mouthful of pasta. “I take it that the lock to the liquor cabinet is broken again?”

“I tested it personally,” Jarvis said. “No matter what I did, I could not manage to get it open.” He picked up Tony’s cup of water and set it, with deliberate movements, closer to him on the edge of the table. “I cannot imagine what the problem might be.”

“It’s a mystery,” Tony agreed. He picked up the water. “I’ll be into the cooking wine at this rate.”

“I’ll see if I can’t find you a small glass of something more palatable,” Jarvis said. He smiled down at DJ. “I made DJ a cup of warm milk with chocolate melted into it. It might not be much, but it certainly seemed to be appreciated.”

“I seem to recall you giving that to me more than once when I was his age,” Tony said. His fork hit the bottom of the bowl, and he looked down, surprised to find he’d finished it. “Did you like it, DJ?”

DJ nodded, his face relaxing into a smile. 

“That and a slice of bread with raspberry jam, and he seemed quite pleased,” Mrs. Parker said. She had a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and he was leaning into her, just a little, his reedy form seeming to be smaller than Tony remembered. “We all had a snack, and DJ fed Furbro some bits of cheese.”

“Do I get some?” Tony asked her.

“Tomorrow, for breakfast,” she said. She took his bowl from him. “Any more tonight, and you’ll likely have trouble sleeping.”

“Or I’ll have nightmares,” Tony agreed. He looked at Peter. “Will you keep an eye on DJ for me?”

Peter’s shoulders straightened up. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“Thank you,” Tony said, because Peter needed that, too. He gave Mrs. Parker a lopsided smile. “And you’ll keep an eye on both of them?”

“And Natasha will be keeping an eye on all of us,” she agreed. She waved at the door. “All right, boys. Now that we’ve all seen that Mr. Stark is doing just fine, I think it’s time for bed.”

Tony leaned over again, and DJ tapped him on the nose. “Diagnostic over,” he said, settling back against the headboard. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

DJ smiled. “Yes.”

“Good.” Tony reached out, his fingers just brushing over DJ’s hair. “Thank you for checking on me. And-” He tried to smile. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Okay now,” DJ said, but he took Peter’s hand again, his fingers gripping tight to Peter’s hand. 

“Good night, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and his eyes were red, and so was the tip of his nose, and Tony hated everything about that.

“I’m trusting you to keep an eye on him,” Tony said, and Peter nodded. He waved at DJ, who waved back. “Go to bed, you rapscallion.”

DJ grinned. “Rap-cal-un,” he said.

“A fine attempt,” Mrs. Parker told him, making a shooing motion at the boys. “Let’s go, my fine lads, tomorrow’ll be here before you know it.”

Tony waited until they were gone, the door shut behind them. Then he threw back the covers. Ignoring Jarvis’ disapproving look, he shifted to the edge of the bed, bracing his hands on either side of his hips. “I need to talk to Rhodey,” he said. “We’re going to have to contact Hammer.”

Jarvis paused. “Sir?”

“He can’t go back,” Tony said. His chest ached, in a way that had nothing to do with bullets. “Whoever’s after me, if they didn’t know about him before?” He met Jarvis’ eyes. “They do now.”

There was a long pause, and then Jarvis nodded. “I’ll fetch Mr. Rhodes for you.”

There was a shirt hanging at the end of the bed, and Tony reached for it. “And let me know the minute Happy’s back.”

Because if Steve wasn’t with him, Tony was going back out himself.

*

Steve recognized Tony’s car from a block away, and started running.

The crowd had long since disbursed, leaving only a handful of men hovering on the sidewalk outside the theater. A few lingering employees kept an eagle eye on the reporters who loitered by the doors, and a couple of bored looking cops chatted on the corner, hands resting on their nightsticks. One of them looked up as Steve ran past, his eyes narrowing. But he made no move to stop him, and Steve was glad. He was getting damn sick of explaining himself.

“Rogers!” Happy stepped off the curb, his hands on his hips, and Steve accelerated, heading straight for him.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped. “Why aren’t you with him?”

Happy exhaled, his whole body seeming to deflate in an instant. “Where the he-” He stopped, his jaw working. “Where have you been?” he managed at last, scowling at Steve. “I been up and down half this city looking for you!”

“Then I musta been in the other half,” Steve bit out. “Stark. Is he-”

Happy caught his arm. “Not here.” When Steve didn’t move, his eyes flicked towards a man who hovered nearby, trying to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping. Happy leaned in. “He’s fine, so’s the kid, everyone’s fine, let’s go.”

Steve stared at him, his pulse still pounding in his ears. “He’s fine? What do you mean, ‘he’s fine’?”

“I mean, it was a flesh wound, the doc’s already got him patched up.” Happy jerked his head towards the car. “Let’s go.”

“What hospital did you take him to?” Steve said, falling into step behind Happy.

“Hospital?” Happy tossed the boy sitting on the hood of the car a silver dollar. The kid snagged it from midair with a grin, hopping down. “Thanks for keeping an eye on things, buddy.”

The boy doffed his cap in a theatrical gesture. “Anytime, mister.”

“Get yourself home, it’s late,” Steve said, because he couldn’t quite stop the words. The boy gave him a look, but still nodded, darting down the street and around the corner. Steve reached for the passenger side door. “What hospital?”

“No hospital,” Happy said, sliding behind the wheel. He waited for Steve to pull his door shut before he started the car. “The doc stitched him up at home.”

Steve blinked at him. “The doc?”

Happy’s eyes darted in his direction. “Ah, yeah. Banner.”

“Banner,” Steve said, his voice flat. “The gardener.”

Happy chuckled, his broad face relaxing. “Yeah, the gardener.” The car shot forward, merging into traffic. “Before the boss hired him, though, he did go to medical school.” He tapped a finger on the side of his jaw. “He fixed me up, couple of months ago, and now? You can barely see the scar.” 

Both hands went back to the steering wheel. “He’s got steady hands and doesn’t flinch from the sight of blood, let me tell you. Just likes plants more, I guess.”

Steve took a deep breath. “The gardener.”

“You need to get past the job title, fella, nobody does what they get paid for around here,” Happy said. 

“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Steve scraped a hand over his face. “So what’s the chef do?”

“Cookin’, mostly,” Happy said. “The boss wanted a French chef, and he got one.”

The urge to swear was almost overwhelming. “He’s not French,” he said, his voice flat.

“Like I said,” Happy drawled, “the boss wanted a French chef, and he got one.”

“He doesn’t actually speak French,” Steve said.

“Issat so?” Happy ran a hand over his mouth and jaw. Steve was pretty sure he was hiding a grin. “I wouldn’t know. I barely speak English.” Before Steve could say something he’d probably regret later, Happy kept going. “Woulda thought you’d approve, anyway. We took both him and DJ straight home, figured the boss’d be safest there.”

Steve shook his head. “Limits access, sure, but they’re not going to try again right now.”

Happy glanced in his direction, but he didn’t say anything. Steve felt his mouth twist into something approaching a smile. “They threw everything they had at him, as fast as they could. If that failed, they’re going to fall back, wait for us to relax. Then they’ll try again.”

There was a beat of silence. “Seems like you’ve got a handle on this kind of thing,” Happy said at last.

“And I don’t hear you objecting, so I’m guessing you do, too,” Steve said.

“More ‘n I’d like,” Happy admitted. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white for a second. But his face never changed, his easy smile floating over his features like a mask. 

Steve studied him in the flickering light of the passing streetlamps. “I can’t protect him if I don’t know what’s happening,” he said at last. “You know that.”

He’d half expected a denial, or some feigned attempt at confusion. Instead, Happy just nodded, his chin dipping down towards his chest. “We all got our secrets,” he said. “An’ some of us, more than others.”

Steve looked back out the window of the car. “We got lucky tonight,” he said. “Or rather, he got lucky.” He tried not to think of blood splattered across the sidewalk, but it was hard. He’d seen it often enough, and he never wanted to see it again. Steve sucked in a breath, trying to shake the last of the adrenaline that was rattling his nerves. “This could’ve been much worse.”

For a long time, they drove in silence, the streets flying by as Happy accelerated across the city. He slowed down only as they finally approached the estate. “He knows that.”

Steve glanced in his direction, his jaw tight. “I don’t think he does.”

“He does,” Happy said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t still be here.” He pulled up to the gate, and an unfamiliar man appeared on the other side of the wrought iron bars. Happy gave him a wave, and the man nodded, unlatching the gates. 

A prickle of unease slid over Steve’s skin. “What’s this?” he asked, his mouth as still as he could keep it.

Happy leaned on the steering wheel while the gates were pulled open. Beyond it, there was half a dozen men, big men with broad shoulders and stiff faces. “Mr. Stane’s over ruled the boss. He’s pulled a bunch of the guards off the factories, sent ‘em here.”

He lowered the window as he rolled the car through the gate. “Bill,” he called, and the man who had opened the gate jogged over. Happy leaned out the window. “This is Rogers.” He tipped his head in Steve’s direction. “He’s got full access, understood?”

Bill leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he studied Steve. “Sure, Mr. Hogan,” he said at last. He gave Steve a broad smile. “Evening, Mr. Rogers. You new on staff?”

“Ain’t staff,” Happy said, as Steve nodded at Bill. “Police. City Hall sent him over.”

Bill’s eyes widened. “Right then,” he said, straightening up. But behind him, one of the men had turned abruptly toward the street, pulling the collar of his jacket up against a non-existent chill. Steve stared at him, making note of him in as much detail as he could. An instant before Happy put the car back in gear, the man glanced back, his eyes catching Steve’s.

And then they were rolling away, across the silent grounds.

Steve settled back into his seat, his stomach churning. “They don’t come inside the house,” he said, his voice quiet.

Happy looked at him, his eyebrows twitching. “They’re all Stark Industries people,” he said.

Steve nodded. “Tonight,” he said, the words barely audible. “Who know he was going to be there?” Happy was silent, and Steve’s eyes flicked towards him. “It wasn’t in the papers. It wasn’t publicized. Who knew he was going to be there?”

“Someone coulda seen him go in, word travels fast in this city,” Happy pointed out.

“It’s possible,” Steve agreed. The grounds sped by, and he could see human forms there, creeping through the darkness. “And the theater management knew who was coming, even if the low level staff didn’t know. But the majority of the people who could place Tony Stark on that sidewalk tonight are his own people.”

Happy nodded. “You think this was an inside job,” he said, and there was a vibration in his voice that Steve couldn’t quite place.

The car came to a stop in front of the mansion’s doors. Steve didn’t move. “Someone wants him dead,” he said at last. He met Happy’s eyes. “And I don’t think it’s a stranger.” 

He reached for the card door. “They don’t come into the house,” he said. “If Mr. Stane wants to put them on the grounds, if he wants them to guard the doors, then we use that. Witnesses keep trouble at bay. But they don’t come into the house. Any of them.” His chin came up. “Do we understand each other?”

For a long moment, Happy just considered him, his face unreadable. “I’ll let the rest of the staff know,” he said at last, and Steve could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said, sliding out of the car. He leaned down. “You coming in?”

“Gotta put the car away, and then I’ve got watch,” Happy said. His smile was tight. “You aren’t the only one who doesn’t like strangers in our space.”

Steve nodded. “Reckon I’m not,” he agreed. He straightened up, pushing the car door shut with one hand. He took a step back, letting Happy pull the car away, and turned back towards the house.

The stone steps seemed ominous somehow, looming in front of him, drawing him forward. He put one foot on the bottom step and froze, suddenly aware of being watched. He twisted around, glancing at the path behind him, and then up at the windows of the house. Nothing moved.

“I know you’re there,” he said, and he knew it was a bluff. But maybe he was alone in that.

“Yeah, but where?” The voice floated through the darkness, and Steve’s head snapped up. What felt like several minutes ticked by, and then the shadows below the eaves shifted. Clint leaned out, one hand braced on the stone next to him. “I took first watch.”

Even knowing he was there, Steve could barely make him out. “How’d you get up there?”

“There’s secret paths all over, and handholds, if you look for them.” Clint subsided back into the shadows, disappearing in an instant. “Head on in. The boss is in a mood.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I’ll just bet he is,” he gritted out.

A beat of silence. Then, “I’m taking it you’re in a mood, too.”

“You have no idea,” Steve said. He started up the stairs again, his shoulders squared, his jaw at a dangerous angle.

“Right. I’ll just… Stay right here. Where it’s safe.”

Steve kept going, his eyes locked on the massive front doors. “Knew you were the smart one around here.” 

Before he could reach the top stair, the doors opened. Jarvis was back lit against the vestibule, his expression hidden in the shadows. “Officer Rogers. I’m pleased you’ve returned.”

“Where is he?” Steve asked.

Jarvis stepped aside, waving him in. “DJ is upstairs with Mrs. Parker,” he said.

The wave of guilt hit him hard. “He’s all right?”

Jarvis smiled. “He’s right as rain, tucked in warm and safe.” He shut the door behind Steve, setting the locks with brisk efficiency. “He was concerned about you.”

“I knew you’d take care of him.” And to his surprise, he realized it was true. He met Jarvis’ eyes. “Thank you, he’s…” His voice trailed away.

Jarvis slipped Steve’s coat from his shoulders with practiced ease. “I know, sir,” he said, giving the cloth a quick flick of his fingers. “As to what you were actually asking, Mr. Stark is upstairs.” He looked up, and for the first time, Steve could see the strain around his eyes, the tension that hovered around his mouth. “He has been most… Upset about your continued absence.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I’ll just bet,” he said.

Jarvis sighed. “DJ is likely asleep by now. Please do not wake him.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Of course not,” Jarvis said. He folded Steve’s coat over his arm. “I’ll see what can be done to fix this.”

“Don’t bother.” Steve made every effort not to look at it. “I won’t be wearing it again.” He headed for the main hall at a deliberate pace. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d forgotten who he was. He’d forgotten what he was here for. He wasn’t a man of leisure, he wasn’t one of the fancy set. He shouldn’t be lounging in plush seats in swell clothes.

It was his fault. All of it was his fault. And there were always consequences.

“You’re fired.”

Steve’s head snapped up. Tony was standing on the second floor landing of the grand staircase, straight and whole and ALIVE, and Steve staggered to a stop, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

Tony braced a hand on the newel post, his expression unreadable. His pants were unbelted, a silk shirt thrown over his shoulders but lying open against his chest. He moved, and the hem of the shirt fluttered against his hips, against the bandages wrapped around his ribs. His feet were bare against the dark plush carpeting, and Steve wasn’t sure why he noticed that, why that small fact brought a rush of heat to his face, like the man was naked, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t.

And maybe he was. Tony looked like something from a different world, almost a different species, his dark, gleaming eyes shadowed beneath the sweep of his lashes. Something beautiful and terrible and foreign, and Steve ached for him in a way that he didn’t even know he could.

Tony’s lips parted, and Steve shuddered. “You’re fired,” Tony said.

And just like that, Steve’s head was clear, all the confusion and infatuation and need washed away by a wave of rage.

“Next time I give you an order, Mr. Stark,” he bit out, setting a foot on the stairs with brutal intent, “I goddamn expect you to follow it.”

Tony’s fingers flexed on the banister. “Are you deaf as well as dumb?” he asked, and there was ice in his words, cold and cutting. “I said, you’re fired. Collect your things and get out. I’ll have a car brought around for you, but that is the end of it.”

Steve choked on a laugh. “I,” he said, his teeth flashing in a vicious smile, “do not work for you.” He stalked up the stairs, each step driving his frustration higher. “Get away from the windows.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Get away from the windows,” Steve repeated, and he was four steps away now, three, two. He didn’t stop and Tony refused to give way, his bare feet braced on the carpet. Steve reached out, catching Tony’s arm. “I gave you an order, Mr. Stark.”

For an instant, Tony’s face went blank, all the sharp hauteur falling away, leaving only confusion. Steve’s fingers tightened, his grip just firm enough that Tony couldn’t easily pull away, and color rushed back into Tony’s face. He let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t take orders from anyone,” he gritted out, “and you’re not in charge here. You’re not even-”

Steve leaned in, and now, Tony rocked back, his eyes wide. “I don’t work for you,” Steve said, his voice dark. “When I get new orders, I’ll follow them, but right now, I know what I’m here to do, and that is to keep you alive.” He stepped to the side, and Tony went with him, shock flashing over his features. “Even if the one who poses the greatest threat to you right now is you.”

Tony skidded to a stop, his heels digging into the carpet, twisting his arm in Steve’s grip. “How dare you,” he bit out. His chin came up, his eyes sharp. “And what will you do if I don’t give you the blind obedience that you demand?” He was so close that Steve could feel the heat of his body. “Because you’re not in control here, Officer. You’re not in charge. You. Have. No. Power.”

Steve stared at him, his breathing ragged, his head swimming. “You-”

Tony’s smile had an edge. “So, what will you do if I won’t move?” He waved his free hand through the air. “If I call your bluff and just…” His eyebrows arched. “Stay right here?”

Steve wanted to pick him up. To shake him. To toss him, resisting or not, over his shoulder, and make him do exactly what Steve wanted him to do. His fingers tightened, and it might’ve hurt. It must’ve hurt. But Tony just stared at him, defiance sharp in his face. “So?” Tony bit out. “What will you do?”

Steve opened his mouth, and whatever he was going to say was going to be horrible; he could taste the words on his tongue, bitter and poisonous, and he had no idea what they were going to be. He was beyond thought now, beyond even trying to think. His fingers flexed, dragging Tony closer, and then, he stopped.

Tony was shaking.

“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

Steve wasn’t sure which of them was more shocked by his words. Tony’s face went blank, confusion sweeping everything else away. Steve’s fingers relaxed, and Tony yanked his arm away. Steve stood there, his hand still hanging in midair. Slowly, he let it fall back to his side. “What are you afraid of?”

Tony’s face flushed. “Get out,” he said.

Steve took a deep breath. “Move away from the windows, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s jaw flexed. “No. So what will-”

Steve moved, and Tony went tense, his whole body drawing up tight, clearly bracing himself for something, even if he didn’t know what it was. But Steve brushed past him, calmly stepping around him and pivoting on his heel. Putting himself between Tony and the window. Blocking the shot for whoever might’ve been lurking outside. Tony’s mouth feel open. “What-”

“There,” Steve said, his voice soft. “Want to know what I’ll do?” He smiled. Just a bit. Just enough, all the confusion, all the anger, all the frustration gone.

“I’ll stand here. Until you choose to move.”

Tony stared at him. “Why.” Steve didn’t say anything, and Tony lunged for him, his hands grabbing for the front of Steve’s shirt, dragging him down. “Why are you so determined to get yourself killed, you damned idiot? Why won’t you just GO?” The final word was a barely contained howl.

“Because it’s not right,” Steve said, quiet and sure. “Because no one deserves to get gunned down in the street in front of-” He shook his head. “It’s not right, and it shouldn’t happen, and I-” He met Tony’s eyes. “I won’t let it happen.”

Tony’s knuckles dug into Steve’s chest. “I’ll call the mayor’s office,” he said, his voice raw. “And have you fired. Then. Then, will you leave?”

Steve’s lips twitched. “I’m not here because it’s my job,” he said.

“You hate me.”

Steve’s chest ached. “I… Wanted to,” he admitted. “I tried, I suppose. But you’re not-” He took a breath, and when he let it go, he let go of something else with it. He wasn’t sure what, but he was suddenly sure. Everything felt right, in a way that it hadn’t in a very long time. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Really.” Tony’s eyes flicked from side to side, studying Steve’s face for something, something that Steve couldn’t define. “And what, exactly, am I?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “And that’s… That’s the problem. I thought I knew who you were. I thought I understood what I was getting into, but I don’t. And I didn’t. And-” He took a deep breath. “And I-”

He stopped. “I don’t know. But I want to find out.”

Tony let out a laugh that sounded strangely broken. “Why?”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. And leaned in.

It barely counted as a kiss. If there was contact, it was fleeting, delicate, the brush of lips against lips for a bare second. But when it was done, the bravest, stupidest thing he’d ever done, he lingered, Tony’s breath warm on his mouth. When Tony sucked in a long, uneven breath, Steve felt it, felt it against every inch of his skin.

“Oh,” Tony said, and Steve let his eyes close. He was strangely at peace with whatever was going to happen now. Whatever happened, whatever Tony was about to do, about to say, he was prepared for it.

“Art school,” Tony said.

Steve’s eyes opened. “What?” he said, his voice blank.

One of Tony’s hands slipped free of the fabric of his shirt, coming up to stroke along the line of Steve’s jaw. “You said. Before the war. Art school,” he repeated, his head tipping to the side.

“What-” Steve started, but Tony’s mouth was on his, and this kiss was not cautious, was not tentative. Tony just pulled Steve close and kissed him, and Steve felt the ground fall out from under his feet.

The kiss went on and on, and he was drowning in it, he was losing his mind, he was losing everything, and he didn’t care. And when Tony’s mouth finally pulled away from his, he was breathing hard, gasping against the plane of Steve’s check, his jaw, his neck. Steve let his head fall back, somehow not surprised to find himself on the floor, Tony half straddling his legs.

“Art school?” he managed, and Tony was laughing against his throat. Steve grinned at nothing and everything. “You making assumptions there?”

“I’m just saying-” Tony’s lips brushed against his collarbone, and Steve realized his shirt was half open now and he wasn’t sure if Tony had done it or if he had, and he didn’t care either way. His hands were under Tony’s shirt, and he was desperate in ways he’d never known before. Tony lifted his head, just far enough to smile at him. “Not every artist I’ve ever met has been open to the idea, but most have a healthy appreciation for-” His fingers slid down Steve’s breastbone, down, down, and Steve’s stomach muscles tensed under the caress. “For the human form.”

“I do-” Steve choked on a breath, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder. “I have my moments.” His hand brushed against the bandage wrapped around Tony’s ribs, and he went still. “You’re hurt.”

“Almost always,” Tony said, and he sounded remarkably cheerful about that. Steve pulled back, just far enough to see his face, and that was a mistake, because Tony, rumpled and flushed and pleased, was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. Steve let out a breath, and it shuddered through him. Tony’s lips twitched into a smile. “What?”

“You need to go to bed,” Steve said, and Tony’s smile took on a wicked edge. Steve laughed. “You. You need to go to bed. And we’ll-” Tony kissed him, and Steve forgot what he was trying to say. “Bed,” he managed, the word whispered against Tony’s lips.

“Yes, please,” Tony whispered back. “Come with me.”

Steve’s head was swimming, and god, everything hurt in the best possible way. “That’s… That’s a bad idea,” he managed. Tony’s hand cupped his cheek, and without thinking, Steve turned his head, pressing a kiss against his palm. “Isn’t it?”

Tony was silent for a moment. “I’ve made a lot of bad choices,” he said at last. “This… Feels like something else entirely.” He pulled away, pushing himself to his feet, his shirt slipping off his shoulders. He shook it off, letting it fall to the ground with casual disregard. He took a breath, his fingers cradling his side. “I’m fine. But if you’re worried…” His smile was slow and sweet and promised wicked things. “Perhaps you should come. Watch over me tonight.”

Steve braced his hands on the ground, trying to ignore how hard it was to draw a deep breath. “I oughta lock you in that room of yours,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. 

“You can,” Tony said. He held out a hand. “But…”

Steve looked at it, sensing ruin, sensing chaos. “But?”

“It only locks from the inside,” Tony said. “If you think it’s important, that’s just, that’s just a sacrifice you’ll have to make, I suppose.”

Steve stared at him. “You going to do what I tell you for once?” he managed.

Tony’s fingers flexed in a ‘come here’ sort of gesture. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Steve looked at his hand. This was a bad idea. This was the worst idea he’d ever had. He had no place here. He had no place with this man, in this house, in this world. And every moment that passed, it was harder to remember that. Harder to focus on the fact that this was temporary, this was a dream.

Because Tony was smiling at him like he’d done something amazing, like he’d made things better, made things bearable. And maybe that’s all this was. A momentary way to hold back the things that were real, the things that were destined to ruin him, maybe ruin them both.

And Steve should’ve been dead a dozen times by now. A dozen, fifty, a hundred times by now. He’d stopped waiting for the other shoe to fall. If it was coming, then by god, let it come.

He took Tony’s hand. “Promise me you’ll try to stay alive.”

“Oh, definitely,” Tony said, his voice bright. “What would be the point in dying? Things have just started getting interesting.”

“Not comforting,” Steve told him, but his grip was firm and strong and real and whatever was coming…

This was going to be worth it.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve had done a lot of stupid things in his life. 

He’d made a lot of bad decisions, based on gut reactions, poor judgement, and a keen sense of justice. Bucky always said, he never remembered to look before he lept, and sometimes forgot to correct that error even long after his feet had hit the ground.

He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life. This, however, might’ve been the stupidest.

Tony’s bed was the biggest piece of furniture that Steve had ever seen. It seemed, at first glance, to be bigger than any rooms he’d ever rented, and for the first time in years, he could stretch out to his full height, his full reach. When his fingers clawed at the linens, desperate for something to hold onto when his head was swimming with pleasure, he hadn’t even come close to finding the edge. His heels digging into the mattress, his back arching, his face buried in pillows, trying to hide the flush he was sure was visible in his cheeks, he never found anything but more space. More room.

For the most part, however, he didn’t really try. Tony held him like an anchor, the only thing that seemed to make sense in a world turned on its head.

He had no idea when he’d fallen asleep. But when he drifted back to consciousness, it was still dark outside; the grand windows that ringed Tony’s bedroom had the curtains drawn, but here and there, there were gaps in the heavy velvet, showing only a hint of moonlight. Everything was still and quiet, and Steve permitted himself a moment of weakness, of stupidity, studying the lines and planes of Tony’s face as he slept. That face was rapidly becoming familiar, becoming beloved, in a way that Steve didn’t understand, that he was almost afraid of. 

But Tony was smiling in his sleep, just a little, those beautiful lips curled up at the corners. His long, dark lashes were still, one hand resting on the pillow beside his cheek. His fingers were lax, and Steve found himself fascinated by their almost elegant structure, an anatomical study that he wanted to which he could’ve dedicated dozens of pages, and hours of his time.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingertips just brushing against the hollow of Tony’s palm. Against the pad of his thumb. Against the hard angle of his wristbone and the rough, calloused skin of his fingers. There was a scar on the side of his hand, invisible to the eye but obvious to the touch. 

Tony shifted, his hand flexing under Steve’s. Before Steve could pull away, Tony’s fingers tangled with his. In the low light, Steve saw his smile stretch, warm and sweet. “Too early,” he mumbled, his voice rough. “Go back to sleep, Steve.”

“I-” Steve’s thumb swept over the back of Tony’s hand, unable to resist one more small, intimate touch. “I should get back to my room. Before morning.”

Tony made a disapproving sound under his breath. He rolled over, onto his uninjured side, but he kept hold of Steve’s hand, dragging him along with him. Startled, Steve allowed himself to be tugged into place, and when the settled, he found himself tucked up against Tony’s back, his arm resting on Tony’s waist, just below his bandages.

“Go back to sleep, Steve,” Tony said, burrowing down into the pillows. A moment later, he was still, his breathing smoothing out into a slow, easy rhythm. But his fingers were still tangled in Steve’s, his calloused fingertips rough against Steve’s skin.

He should go. He knew he should. 

Instead, he shifted closer, his legs sliding across the fine linen of the sheets as he curled against Tony’s back. He was warm and solid, the rise and fall of his ribs beneath Steve’s arm comforting. For the first time, one of these beds, too big and too soft and too foreign, seemed almost comfortable. Cautious, wary of going too far or doing the wrong thing, Steve moved a little closer, his feet bumping against Tony’s, his face buried in the nape of Tony’s neck. He let his eyes slide shut, inhaling the scent of Tony’s skin.

Steve had made a lot of bad decisions in his life. And a few really good ones.

And God help him, right now, he had no idea which this was.

*

“Good morning, sir.”

Tony groaned, his whole body aching. “It absolutely is not,” he said, and was that really his voice? He coughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “When did the party end? Or start?”

“I’m certain I don’t know, sir,” Jarvis said, and Tony braced himself for the familiar sound of his curtains being drawn back, and the painful flood of light that was sure to follow. “I’ve brought your-”

There was a sudden, scrambling motion behind him, the covers pulling away with a sharp yank. Surprised, Tony fumbled himself into a sitting position just in time to see a pale blonde head disappear under the covers. Legs hit his under the cover of the quilt and Tony realized, just a second too late, that Steve was absolutely making a break for it.

He lunged out with one arm, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his side as he threw his weight against Steve’s, pinning him to the bed. For an instant, he was sure Steve was going to throw him off and crash out of bed and to the floor. 

Jarvis, standing at the foot of the bed, considered this with a faintly perplexed expression on his face. “I’ve brought your breakfast,” he said, holding the tray up. “Your…” His head tipped to the side. “Your usual two plates. As is common. For you.” 

Tony sank his fingers into the quilt, and what he thought was Steve’s shoulder underneath. ‘Thank you. I’ll… Eat those. Both of those. You can-” Steve shifted, and Tony was dragged across the bed with him. “You can leave it.”

Jarvis lowered the tray down to the bedside table. “Shall I lay out your clothes for the day?” he asked. Tony got the impression that he was enjoying this situation.

“While I appreciate your dedication to your duty,” Tony said from between clenched teeth, “I do believe that I can manage.” He arched his eyebrows. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps-”

‘Not helping,’ Tony mouthed at him. And then, out loud, “No. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir. My only concern is your well being and safety, not to mention your happiness,” Jarvis said, and if Tony could’ve gotten a hand free, he would’ve thrown a pillow at him. “Do ring if you need more coffee, I should be happy to return with another pot once you’ve-” His eyebrows rose and fell, a slight, puckish smile on his face. “Handled your breakfast.”

Tony told himself he absolutely wasn’t blushing. “Thank you,” he repeated, and mouthed, ‘get out.’ 

“You are quite welcome, sir,” Jarvis said, slipping out of the room.

Tony waited until the bedroom door closed behind Jarvis with a firm click before he pushed the blanket back. Steve glared up at him, his face flushed, his mouth a hard, tight line. Tony struggled against an entirely unreasonable wave of affection. “Just curious,” he said, flopping back against the pillows. “What was your plan there, officer? Running stark naked across the bedroom to the closet?”

“No.” Steve sat up, and god, Tony had never seen anything as beautiful as this man, all broad shoulders and sleek, firm muscle. “My plan was to grab all the linens and run for the closet, leaving you stark naked.”

Tony grinned as he reached for the pot of coffee on the tray. “How ungentlemanly,” he said, pouring a cup. He held it out to Steve. “And unnecessary.”

Steve was still for an instant, looking at Tony and then the cup, and then back at Tony. Tony just sat there, the cup extended to him. He arched an eyebrow. “Not to play on your sympathies,” he said, with a slight smile, “but this is my injured side, and it’s starting to remind me of that.”

Steve took the cup from him. “Sorry,” he said. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers hovering over the bandage. “Are you- Did I-”

Tony poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m fine,” he said, but he raised his arm so Steve could see for himself. “Hurts like hell, if I’m being honest, and I’m sure it’s turning six shades of purple today, but Bruce knows not to trust me with weak sutures.”

Steve’s fingers brushed across the bandage, and the skin above, and Tony sucked in a breath. Steve snatched his hand back. “Sorry, I-”

“That wasn’t pain,” Tony said, his voice a bit raw, and Steve flushed again, a wave of pink sweeping up his neck and across his cheeks. Tony, unable to resist, leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against Steve’s soft lips. Steve, to his credit, kissed him back, his mouth parting under Tony’s, a soft sigh shuddering through him.

“Good morning to me,” Tony whispered against Steve’s mouth, and he was sure that he felt Steve smile. “Now, what-”

The knock at the door sent Steve scrambling backwards, his coffee cup slipping out of his hand and onto the quilt. Biting back a curse, Tony leaned forward, his arms folded on his knee. “Yes?” he called.

“Miss Potts wanted me to remind you that you have a meeting this morning,” Jarvis called. He paused. “Perhaps I should run your bath?”

“This is my punishment,” Tony said to the ceiling. He shoved back the blankets, rolling to his feet. “For all my sins, this is how I am humbled.” He snagged his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and shrugged into it as he headed for the door. “Because who can complain?” Tying his robe shut with a sharp yank of his hands, he wrenched the door open. “You are my penance and my punishment, all at once, you know that, don’t you?”

Jarvis was very definitely not smirking at him. “Sir,” he said, his tone holding just the tiniest hint of censure, “I am hurt by that implication. When have I ever done anything other than my utmost for you?”

Tony braced a shoulder against the doorframe. “I’m going to stop you right there-”

“Never have I spoken a cross word to you, not when you set the drapes on the third floor on fire,” Jarvis pointed out. “Not when you knocked over the crystal punchbowl less than an hour before the largest party your parents ever threw, shattering it across two separate carpets. Not when you lost all of the French linens to a hurricane and the lake.”

Tony pressed a hand to his face. “This is about the frogs, isn’t it?”

“I had quite forgotten about the time you chose to raise bullfrogs in your mother’s fountain,” Jarvis said. “And the night when they escaped into the great hall and then down into the kitchens, causing half the maids to quit in less than an hour.” He paused. “Including the chef and the entire kitchen staff.”

Tony peeked out from between his fingers to find Jarvis smiling at him, his expression benign. “Shall I draw your bath, sir?” he asked.

“I believe I can manage,” Tony said. Jarvis arched his eyebrows. “I can manage, Jarvis.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can, sir, it’s just that you never have, and so-”

“Not helping,” Tony told him, stomping down on the bubble of laughter that threatened to escape. “You insubordinate wiseass.”

Jarvis’ eyebrows bounced up again. “Sir. I’m quite hurt. All I want for you is-”

“I’m living my best life, Jarvis, I promise I’ll bathe, and I’m firing you tomorrow, I’d do it today, but I’m too busy, I’ve got things to do, so many-” There was a sound of clattering china from behind him. He smiled. “So many wonderful things to do, so… If you’ll excuse me.”

Jarvis inclined his head. “Of course, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.” He paused, pulling a flower out of his lapel and handing it to Tony. “Good day, sir.”

Tony gave him a look. “Not helping,” he sing-songed, and shut the door. He was fairly certain he heard Jarvis chuckling on the other side of the panel. Rolling his eyes, he headed back to the bed, twirling the stem of the blossom between his fingers.

Steve was blotting at the coffee that had spilled on the sheets, his face tense. “Leave it, it’s fine,” Tony said, tossing the flower onto the breakfast tray. Steve gave him a look, and Tony couldn’t quite manage to hide his smile.

Steve scowled at him, his face wary. “Something funny?” he asked, and there was a tension in his voice that Tony didn’t quite understand.

“Your hair’s sticking up all over,” Tony said, crossing back to the bed. “You look like a dandelion about to go to seed. Come here.” Without thinking, he reached out, smoothing Steve’s hair down with a gentle hand. 

Steve froze, his face going blank. Tony, with no graceful way to withdraw, just doubled down on the contact, cradling Steve’s head between his palms. To his surprise, instead of pulling away, Steve leaned into the contact, like a child seeking comfort. Ignoring the uncomfortable ache in his chest, Tony leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s unruly locks.

“There,” he said, straightening up. “That’ll do, until we can find you a comb.”

Steve looked up, his blue eyes bright below the straight line of his brows, his high cheekbones pink, and Tony’s chest contracted, something he refused to acknowledge making his breath catch in his throat. “Yours isn’t much better,” Steve said, even as he swiped a hand at his hair, undoing Tony’s efforts in a single move.

Tony gave his head a toss. “Yes, but on me, it looks wildly romantic. The papers all say so,” he said, and Steve laughed, the sound muffled behind his fingers. Tony grinned at him. “However, your point is taken. I’ll draw us a bath. I’m going to regret telling Jarvis I can do it, now he’s going to make me handle it for myself from now on. And it’s not that I can’t, it’s just he does it better.”

“Does it better?” Steve repeated. “It’s… Filling a tub with water, isn’t it? How can he be better than you at turning a tap?”

“He fills it up and waits for the tub to absorb the heat, then drains it and refills it with fresh hot water,” Tony said. “And that’s when he adds the bath salts and anything else, so-” Steve was staring at him, a frankly pitying look on his face. Tony sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Eat.”

Steve’s legs shifted under the covers, one knee coming up against his chest. He braced his arm on it. “I should go,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure, and he didn’t move.

Tony pointed at the tray. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll draw a bath.” If he was lucky, he could coax Steve into the tub with him; heaven knew it was large enough.

Steve looked at the tray. He reached out, lifting the cloche to peek at the plate underneath and releasing a fragrant cloud of warm air, heavily scented with bacon and warm syrup. “You’re awful bossy, anyone ever tell you that?”

“If they have, I haven’t listened,” Tony said, but Steve was still in his bed, bare and beautiful and getting toast crumbs in Tony’s sheets. Satisfied, Tony headed for the door. 

All of a sudden, he was feeling very lucky indeed.

*

Steve walked around the full perimeter of the grounds twice. The second loop had been necessary, because after the first one, he realized he had no memory of anything he’d just done.

Apparently, sex made him stupid.

The second sweep, he’d try to keep focused, despite the way his brain kept trying to wander back to last night. And this morning. And the possibility of later on today.

He was in a lot of trouble.

By the time he returned to the laundry yard, he’d gotten a good idea of where the guards had been posted, where they patrolled, and which ones were actually paying attention. The man by the kitchn door was tall and broad, with a nose that had been broken a few times, and a sharp look in his eye. The first time he’d seen Steve emerge from the house, he’d straightened up, hand going to the nightstick hanging from his belt. Unlike some of the men posted out by the walls, it was clear this one took his task seriously.

There were an unfamiliar truck in the driveway now, and as Steve approached the kitchen door, a delivery man came out, his cap tucked under his arm, a sweet roll in one hand and a steaming tin cup in the other. He gave the guard a nod, gripping the bun in his teeth as he put his cap on. 

Steve watched him go. “Deliveries?” he asked the guard.

“Forth one this mornin’,” the man said. “The cook told us which ones he was expectin’, and thems got a list out at the gate. If someone ain’t on it, they ain’t gettin’ in.”

Steve nodded. “That the last one?”

The man shrugged. “Kid came with some paperwork, his bicycle’s out front. Guess he’s waiting for a reply before he can take off back to the office what sent him.” He leaned back against the side of the house, his arms crossed over his chest. His nightstick swung back, banging against the house with a dull thud. “They’ll be keeping an eye on him down in the kitchen.”

“Right.” Steve gave him a nod, and headed inside. 

Clint was at the stove, an apron tied around his waist, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The air was heavy was the scent of garlic and onion, and fresh baked bread. Clint glanced over as Steve walked in. “Coffee’s on the hob,” he said, snagging a jar of some unidentified spice from a high shelf. “Mrs. Parker’s made some fresh apple turnovers, they’re in the basket on the sideboard.”

He walked across the kitchen, sliding a knife out of the block as he passed. “You.” He waved it in the direction of the boy hovering by the table, his hat in his hands. “Sit and eat. Jarvis’ll bring Mr. Stark’s reply as soon as it’s ready, and in the meantime, you’re getting in my way.”

The boy shifted his weight, his feet shuffling awkwardly on the polished stone floor. “‘Bout that,” he said, his voice shaking at the edges. “Wonderin’ if I could just take a turnover, or maybe two? And eat ‘em later?”

“You can have one after you’ve had some real food.” Clint moved so fast at the cutting board that the blade of his knife was just a blur. “Sit.”

The boy opened his mouth, and Clint shook his head. “Sit. Not gonna say it again.”

Steve watched, curious now, as the boy glanced at Clint, and then at the basket of turnovers. There was a pinched tension around his mouth, his knuckles white as he gripped his cap. He was perhaps fourteen, or fifteen at most, and his sleeves were just an inch too short for his arms. His wrists were all bone, and Steve wondered if the rest of him was as skinny beneath the weight of his uniform.

The boy’s eyes darted towards the stack of folded napkins piled up on the sideboard, and he reached out, keeping a careful eye on Clint.

“How many siblings do you have?” Steve asked, and the boy jumped. 

He took a step away from the sideboard, his hands locked on his cap again. “Uh, that is to say, it’s-” He blinked up at Steve, his face pale. “Three. Three, sir. All sisters.”

Steve nodded. “All younger,” he guessed. “You must be working to help support your family, then.”

The boy shifted his weight. “I don’t mind, sir. I’m used to working, and I’ve got no head for schooling.” He gave the basket a look. “I wasn’t trying to take more than I always have, I swear, I just thought…”

His voice trailed away, and Steve nodded. “Thought you could take one home for them.”

Clint was still now, and the boy shrugged. “It’s all the same to you,” he said, his voice quiet, “but having something sweet would be a real treat for them.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “If I could.”

Clint set his knife down. “When’s the last time they ate?” he asked. The boy’s shoulders went straight and tight, his chin coming up, and Clint let out a sigh. “Right. Right.” He reached for a pot on the stove. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to sit, and eat a proper meal.” He took the lid off, releasing a wave of fragrant, spicy steam, and reached for a ladle. “And I’ll make up some things for you.”

He set down a bowl, heaped high with rice, filled with chunks of sausage, peppers and celery, smelling of onions and garlic. Clint looked up, meeting the boy’s eyes. “Eat. You’re not taking it out of your sisters’ mouths, I promise.”

For a minute, Steve thought the kid would balk. But pride was hard to maintain on an empty stomach, and the lure of a hot meal won out. Cautiously, carefully, he lowered himself onto a stool, and took the fork that Clint pushed across the counter to him. Clint picked up another bowl from the stack. Without asking, he filled it, and handed it to Steve. “Keep him company,” he said, and Steve nodded, taking a seat at the counter.

The boy was eating with the quick, almost desperate movements of someone who’d been hungry for a long time. His eyes came up, catching Steve’s, and he made a deliberate effort to slow down, chewing carefully. Steve gave him a smile. “I’m Steve,” he said.

The boy nodded. “Mickey,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist. “You’re new here.”

“There’s been some trouble.” Steve dug his fork into the bowl. He’d never seen a dish quite like it, but the memory of an empty belly was a constant companion, and he’d never been a picky eater. The rice was spicy and sweet, all at once, an unfamiliar tang that bit against his tongue and the back of his throat. But rice mellowed it, and the thick rounds of sausage were delicious. He dug in, taking another few bites before he looked up again. “It’s steady work. Which is hard to find these days.”

Mickey snorted. “Ain’t that the truth. I do my best, and my ma takes what she can find, but it ain’t much these days.” He shoveled another heaping spoonful of rice into his mouth. “I keep a roof over our heads, but sometimes, it don’t stretch as far as it could, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Steve watched as Clint loaded a canvas sack with potatoes and dried beans. He added a bag of rice, and another of onions. He disappeared back into the pantry, and Steve looked back at Mickey. “You’re not on the support rolls? Three little girls, you should-”

Another shrug, but Mickey’s face was set in a sharp frown. “They told ma we don’t qualify.” He turned his head, his lips pursing as if he was going to spit, but he caught himself in time. His shoulders hunched as he went back to his meal. “Whatta they know?”

Steve nodded. “With just you-”

“Yeah, ma told ‘em that our da’s out, looking for work.” Mickey licked his thumb. “Which, he might be, who knows?” He looked up, and his jaw was a hard line. “He didn’t want us before the world fell to pieces, why’d he want to come back now?” He bent over his bowl, his arms wrapped around it almost protectively. “Ma says he was here, couple months ago, but none of us saw him.” He let out an ugly bark of laughter. “We pretend, cause she wants us to. But he’s not coming back, that’s just the way of it.”

Clint was wrapping up a joint of ham, the butcher paper tied neatly into place. It went into the bag, along with a packet that Steve was pretty sure contained a couple of pounds of dried sausage, and a jar of gleaming red jam. 

Steve waited until he disappeared back into the pantry before he continued. “Where do you live?” he asked, his voice low. Mickey gave him a look, and Steve struggled against a smile. “I’m just hired help, too. I’m betting my address isn’t any more sophisticated.”

That won him a smile. Mickey mumbled a street, between bites of rice and sausage, and Steve leaned back in his seat, relief flooding over him. “That makes it easy,” he said. There was a small notebook on the counter, a pencil tied to the spine. Steve scribbled a quick note, and ripped it out, folding it in quarters. “Give this to your ma.” He handed it over. “Tell her to go down to the precinct on down by the old bank building. She needs to ask for Sgt. Dionne, and give him that note.”

Mickey studied the page. “What’s that gonna do?”

“He’ll get you on the relief rolls,” Steve said. He went back to his food. “He owes me a favor, a big one.” He shot Mickey a smile. “And he’s rather desperate not to. Told him in that note, he did this, we’re even.”

Mickey looked at the note, then back at him, then back at the paper. His fingers closed over it, his fingers going tight. “What d’ you want in exchange?”

Steve focused on eating for a moment. “When you’ve got a little to spare, give it to someone who needs it,” he said. He looked up, meeting the boy’s eyes. “And take care of your sisters.”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

The kitchen door opened, and Jarvis slipped in, an envelope in his hand. “Thank you for waiting. Your reply,” he said, holding it out to Mickey, who scrambled up so fast that he almost overturned his stool. “Please take care returning to the office.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Jarvis.” Mickey took the envelope, and picked up his cap from the sideboard. “I will, sir.”

Jarvis disappeared back up to the house, and Clint put a jar of pickles into the bag, then handed it over. “Can you strap that-”

“I can, yes, there’s a- A box for delivering packages on the back of my bicycle,” Mickey said. His thin arms went around it in a hug. “Thank you, Mr. Barton. I really-” His throat worked. “Thank you.”

“Don’t forget the turnovers,” Steve said, and Clint laughed. 

“Right.” He stacked up half a dozen of them in the butcher paper, and folded it up around them. He handed the packet over. “One for each of you, and an extra one for you.”

Mickey nodded. “Thank you.” He looked at Steve. “Thank you, sir.”

“Steve,” Steve said.

“Right. Sure. Steve.” He backed out of the kitchen, his head still bobbing in a nod the entire way. 

Clint watched him go, and shut the door behind him. “Well, that was a dent in the pantry,” he said.

“I’ll pay you for the-” Steve started.

“It’s fine,” Clint said. He squinted at the menu that was pinned to the board beside the pantry. “Mrs. Parker keeps us stocked with the basics. A coin or two is well appreciated, but that’s not the first workman who’s taken his bonus in rice and flour.”

He disappeared into the pantry. “Mr. Stark always says, pay a man a fair wage and reward loyalty and hard work, and they’ll repay the favor.” A moment later, he emerged, a sack of potatoes braced on one muscular shoulder. “You want some more?”

Steve looked down at the bowl, surprised to find it empty. “No, I’m full.” He picked it up both bowls and carried them to the sink. “It was good, though.” He glanced at Clint. “What was it?”

Clint grinned. “Jambalaya,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue. “An old recipe from my last…” He paused. “My last job.”

“Right,” Steve said, reaching for the coffee pot. “Your last job. Your last… Job as what, exactly?”

“Jack of all trades, really.” Without being asked, Clint handed over the cream pot before he tossed a heavy cast iron skillet onto the stove. It hit like a brick, rattling the huge range. He didn’t seem to notice. “I have a lot of skills, and most of them…” He spun a knife between his fingers, the blade a flash of metal and light. “Come in useful here.”

Steve finished pouring himself a cup of coffee, and returned the pot to its spot on the stove. He turned back to Clint. “You aren’t French.”

Clint let out a bark of laughter. “My ancestors weren’t even French,” he said, his chin bobbing in a nod. He diced an onion, the blade still moving with dizzying speed, and reached for another one.

“You don’t speak French.”

“Not a lick,” Clint agreed.

“You’re not a French chef,” Steve said.

“Well, that depends on who you ask,” Clint pointed out. Steve stared at him, and Clint grinned. “Did you ask Mr. Stark? Because he seems to think-”

“Can anyone in this place answer a damn simple question?” Steve asked, tossing himself back into his seat at the counter. “It shouldn’t be so much to ask, so-”

Clint was laughing now, his shoulders shaking. “You’re not asking the right questions,” he said, and Steve gave him a look. “The question you should be asking is, why are you a French Chef, despite being neither French, nor a chef?”

“I’ll bite,” Steve said. “Why?”

“Because that’s what Mr. Stark needed.” Clint tossed an onion in the air and caught it, rolling it around his hand and across his wrist. “And that’s what he got.”

Steve nodded. “And where did he find you?”

Clint leaned back against the counter next to the range, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “What, the boss?” His teeth flashed in a grin. “In his library, actually. Holding something valuable. That definitely didn’t belong to me.”

Steve nodded again, strangely resigned. “You were robbing him,” he said.

Clint rubbed his chin. Steve was almost certain he was trying to hide a smile. “In a manner of speaking.”

“You were robbing him,” Steve repeated, more amused by this than he should’ve been. “And how, exactly, did that result in-” He waved a hand at the kitchen. “This?”

“Well.” Clint pushed away from the counter, his head swinging back towards the stove. “You gotta understand, Nat’s never been one to go down without a fight.

He tossed some butter in the hot skillet, swirling it back and forth as it melted with a hiss. “We’d been working together for a while. She found the jobs. Did the planning. I was the muscle, not the brains, but I trusted her, so…” One shoulder rose and fell in a half shrug, and he reached for the cutting board, scraping the chopped onions and garlic into the hot butter. “When she found a client who wanted a trinket from the Stark Mansion, and was willing to pay handsomely for it? I was on board.”

Clint reached for the pepper mill. “Why wouldn’t I be? Everyone knew Stark was a drunk, and the place barely had any staff. What’d we have to get past? A fence and an elderly family retainer? It was an easy job. Get in, get to the second floor, snag the ugliest vase I’ve ever seen from a shelf behind a door, and get back out.”

He paused. “Who does that, ya know? Who pays that much money to get a dusty, ugly vase from a top shelf in a room no one seemed to go into? I figured it was perfect. Might be days, or even weeks, before anyone even noticed it was gone. If we were careful, if no one saw us?” He tossed the pepper mill in a high, controlled arc, sending it flipping end over end through the air before he snagged it with one hand. “Easy money.”

Steve took a sip of his coffee. “Thing I’ve learned about easy money,” he said, “is that the two words don’t go together as often as we think.”

“You-” Clint pointed the mill at Steve. “Are a wise man.” He gave the mill a couple of quick twists, and tossed it back onto the counter. “I hadn’t learned that particular lesson yet.”

“‘Yet?’” Steve repeated.

“I wised up at some point over the past few years. Getting in was the early part.” Clint tossed salt into the pan, and dusted off his fingers. “Getting into the grounds, and getting into the house. You might’ve noticed earlier, I don’t mind heights and I’m a pretty good climber. Nat’s faster than me, and lighter on her feet. Took us less than ten minutes by my watch, and we were in the library and she was halfway up the shelves. Tossed the vase down to me just as the door opened.

He paused. “Not many people living here, then, but know what? Three or four people seem like a lot when they’re all armed.”

Steve stared at him, and Clint grinned. “Three doors, three people. Rhodes, Miss Potts, and Mr. Stark himself, all standing in one of them, all of them holding guns in what could only be called a professional manner.”

“Oh God,” Steve mumbled into his cup.

“He wasn’t around, not that he’d be much help. But there I am,” Clint said, waving a hand through the air. “Standing in the middle of the library, holding a vase that definitely did not belong to me, with three guns pointed right at my face. Far as I could see, I had three choices, and I didn’t like any of them.”

“And what would those be?” Steve asked.

Clint held up three fingers. “One, jail. Two, running at the guns and hoping I didn’t get shot. And three, jumping out the window and hoping I didn’t break a leg AND get shot,” Clint said. “Of the three, jail was probably the best of them, but like I said, I wasn’t the brains of the outfit. And Nat’s never met a situation she hasn’t tried to talk her way out of.”

“Imagine the scene,” Clint said, his head tipping in Steve’s direction. “Me. Standing there like a wax dummy, hugging a vase, looking every inch like the idiot I am. Nat, clinging to the shelves about eight feet off the floor. Stark and Rhodes and Potts all standing at different doors, guns cocked and ready to fire. And Nat goes-” He paused, his lips twitching. “‘It seems like you could use some additional staff. We should never have gotten this far.’”

Steve realized his mouth was hanging open. “You’re lying,” he said, flat out, and Clint burst into laughter.

“Could I make up something that makes me look that bad?” he managed. “I mean, I could, but why would I?” He glanced up, his eyes dancing. “Nope, that’s word for word what she said, cool as anything.

“And Stark being Stark, he just kind of stopped. Because I don’t know if you’ve figure this out yet,” Clint said. “But he likes a puzzle. He likes things he doesn’t understand. Most people as smart as he is, they don’t like to acknowledge anything or anyone that challenges their standing as the smartest guy in the room. But Stark…”

Clint braced his hands on the counter, leaning into them. “Stark is bored by anything he understands. He’s bored by almost everything, so if you can just… Make him think, even for a minute, even for a second, you’ve got an in. He’ll look at you different. You’re… Interesting.” He rocked back on his heels. “If you can get his attention, he’s-” 

He shook his head. “Anyway, he looked at Nat, who, again, still hanging off the side of the library shelves like a cobweb, and goes, ‘how nice of you to offer, but really, I’m all full up. The only open job offer I have is for a chef.’” Clint stopped. “Offhand thing. She’s gorgeous, and he flirts, just, you know, as a matter of course, smooth talk comes natural.”

Steve took a sip of coffee, nodding. “At what point did Pepper shoot him?”

“She definitely looked like she was considering taking the butt of that pistol to the back of his head, I’m not going to lie,” Clint said, giving the pan a shake. “And Rhodes just looked resigned. Like he’d been here before, and he knew where it was going to end, and he didn’t like it, but he was sick of fighting it.”

Steve tapped the rim of his coffee cup with one finger, grinning at Clint. “Didn’t stop him, I take it?”

“Didn’t even slow him down,” Clint said. “Especially since Nat just pointed at me, and went, cool as you please, ‘What do you know. He’s a chef.’ And Stark just stared at her, just, I guess awed is the best way to put it. That she’s really going with this. He looked at me and smiled, and said, ‘I just bet you are, but I need a French chef. They’re the best, and we hire only the best. It’s a requirement around here.’”

“And so Natasha said you were,” Steve said.

“‘He’s French,’ was her exact words, and Stark was laughing by now, just laughing out loud, and he said to me, ‘Really. You’re French,’ and it wasn’t really a question, but now I had four options,” Clint explained. 

“Jail, shot, going out the window which results in you breaking your leg and also getting shot, and…” Steve prompted.

“And the new option: Natasha kills me in the back of a paddy wagon.”

Steve tried to muffle his laughter behind a hand. “And you choose…”

“I looked Stark dead in the eye and said-” Clint straightened up, and pressed his fingers to his chest in a theatrical gesture. “‘Oui.’”

Steve buried his head in his arms, laughing so hard that he felt like he was going to cry. It took him three tries to get himself under control enough to ask, “Why am I not surprised?”

“‘Cause you’ve started to figure this place out,” Clint said. “Anyway, so Stark just stared at me, this amused, perplexed look on his face, and then he walks across the room, reaches out-” Clint picked up Steve’s coffee cup, his fingers light and delicate on handle. “And takes the vase from me. He smiled. He nods. And he started talking to me in French.”

“Of course he did,” Steve said. He propped his chin on one hand. “So. You had no idea what he was saying.”

“Didn’t have a clue,” Clint agreed. “But he gestured at the door, and Nat got off of the shelves, and we were force marched out of the library, down the main stairs, down the back stairs, and into the kitchen. Stark’s got the vase in the crook of one arm and the gun in the other, and he’s chattering away in French the entire time.

“So we get to the kitchen, and Jarvis beat us there somehow, and none of this appeared to bother him, like intruders were force marched through the house at gunpoint all the time.” Clint paused in the act of pouring Steve another cup of coffee. “In retrospect, that might be the case.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Steve said. He took the cup with a nod and a smile. 

“Anyway, he was locking every door in that kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the cabinets with the cutlery, just… Everything.” Clint went back to his pan, giving the contents a quick turn. “And Stark waved a hand at the kitchen, said something pleasant sounding in French, and they all trooped back up the stairs. First Miss Potts, then Jarvis, then Stark, and Rhodes last of all. The door up to the house closed, and-” He snapped his fingers. “Click. One last key turning in one last lock.

“And I’m standing there, not having any clue what the hell is going on, but I don’t have any bullet holes in me, I’m not in handcuffs, and Nat isn’t trying to bludgeon me, so… I mean, all things considered, that’s about the best I could hope for. So I look at Nat, and she shrugs, and says, ‘he wants you to make breakfast.’”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. Clint smiled at him. “Yeah, see-” He pointed a spoon in Steve’s direction. “That’s what I did, too. So there we were. In the kitchen. In the middle of the night. And Nat’s prowling around, the way she does, trying everything. I mean, she could’ve picked any of the locks in here, but she was just tugging on drawer handles and doors and we found out Jarvis left two things unlocked.

“One, the door to the yard. And two, the door to the pantry.” Clint snagged a heavy earthenware jar from a shelf, flipping the cover into the air and digging out a scoop of flour before catching it. “Message was pretty clear. Take some food. And get out.”

“It could’ve been a trap,” Steve mused. “If you were running across the grounds-”

“They coulda shot us, sure,” Clint said. The jar went back on the shelf. “But they could’ve done that in the library.” He gave Steve a look. “You think the police would’ve done more than nod approvingly if Stark had called them up and told them that he’d heroically shot two thieves that broke into his house and were caught red handed?”

Steve huffed out a sigh. “Probably not,” he admitted.

“Right. So the only reason to try to trick us into running is if he wanted to keep the blood off of the carpet.” Clint paused. “If we’d had any sense, we would’ve gone. Hopped a train with the down payment our client gave us to get that vase, moved on. For a complete failure, it was the best we could’ve hoped for.”

He lapsed into silence, and Steve waited, sipping his coffee. “You didn’t,” he said at last.

“I was always even dumber than I look,” Clint said. “I just-” He shook his head. “I was sick of running. And I can cook. Nothing fancy, but breakfast doesn't have to be fancy, does it?” He kicked the range with the side of one foot. “Took me a bit to figure this thing out. To find the baking powder and the lard in the pantry. And Nat hung back for a while. Just watched me. Because just because I was going to try this, didn’t mean she had to.

“I think that Rhodes sat at the top of the stairs until morning, with a gun, just in case we went back up. But he was the first one to come down.” Clint took the lid off of a jar. “To find I’d made biscuits and sausage gravy, bacon and fried potatoes, a pan of scrambled eggs and a pot of beans. He stood there, staring at the two of us, because Nat was elbow deep in a pile of bread dough, and I was stirring porridge over at the stove.”

“Whatever that man’s paid, it’s not enough,” Steve said.

“Yeah, that’s probably the truth.” Clint said. “But he just kind of nodded, and went back upstairs. Came back fifteen minutes later with Miss Potts and Mr. Stark. And all three of them stared at us.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So I pick up a biscuit, and I cut it in half, put it on two plates and cover both of ‘em with gravy. Then I sit down, and start eating. 

“It takes Stark a minute, but finally, he picks up the other plate, and sits down across the counter from me, and he eats.” Clint glanced over at the pan. “And when he finished, he stood up, and nodded, and said something in French, and left.”

“And that’s how you got hired,” Steve said. Clint spread his arms wide. “That’s insanity. You know that.” 

“I’ve never claimed otherwise,” Clint said. 

“So.” Steve propped his cheek on one hand. “He knows you’re not French.”

“Oh, of course,” Clint said. “And I know that he knows I’m not French. And he knows that I know that he knows-”

“Right, I got it,” Steve said. “But if that’s the case, why do you still pretend?”

“Because we’re both waiting for the other person to break first,” Clint said. Steve stared at him. Clint shrugged. “If I admit it first, he wins.”

“Wins WHAT?” Steve asked him.

“Wins,” Clint repeated. He picked up his spoon. “And you’re still not asking the important question.”

“What, what was in the vase?” Steve asked, his head in his hands. That was met with silence, and he looked up to find Clint watching him, his eyes narrowed. Steve rocked back in his chair. “Oh, was I not supposed to figure that one out?”

He reached for his coffee cup. “If you got that far, that easily, and then got caught in a pincer movement, then that means that they’d set a trap, and you were not who they were hoping to catch.” Steve took a sip. “So let me guess, he set someone up, letting them know that something was hidden in a seemingly worthless vase, and part of your employment agreement was to let him know who hired you?”

Slowly, deliberately, Clint smiled. “Well, that’s a fascinating question,” he drawled. “But still not the right one. The one you should be asking is that first one. Go back to asking what my last job was.”

“Thief,” Steve said.

“Less a job and more a hobby,” Clint said.

“This house is a mess of riddles and contradictions,” Steve said to no one in particular, just as Bruce pushed the back door open, stepping in from the laundry yard. 

“You have no idea,” he said, with a wry smile. “Clint, do we have-”

“Hey, Doc,” Clint said, already pouring a cup of coffee. “You want to tell the copper where Nat found me?”

Bruce took it from him, a very tired look on his face. “Really,” he said, and there was a pleading note to the single word. “Really, we’re telling the nice police officer, uh, how you-” His eyes flicked towards Steve, his expression wary. “How you got your job?”

“Already told him,” Clint said, balancing a bowl of eggs in the palm of one hand. “So Stark found me in the library, robbing him. The question is, where did Nat find me?”

Bruce met Steve’s eyes. Steve sighed. “Where did Natasha find him?” he asked.

Bruce saluted him with his coffee cup. “Carson’s Carnival of Wonders,” he said.

Steve looked at him. Looked at Clint. Clint tossed the bowl up and tipped forward, doing a swift, fluid flip, regaining his feet and straightening back up in the blink of an eye. The bowl fell neatly back into his hand, the eggs barely rattling against the china. Steve realized his mouth was hanging open. “The circus,” he said at last.

Clint took a deep, broad bow. “The circus,” he agreed. “The perfect place for a runaway from Iowa to pick up a bit of everything. A bit of wire walking. A bit of trapeze artistry. A bit of juggling, and knife throwing and animal training and contortion work.”

“And a lot of cooking,” Steve said, putting the pieces together.

“A lot of cooking for a lot of people from a lot of places,” Clint said with a grin. “A show like that picks up people as it moves, and all of them want out of where they are, but all of them sort of miss the place they left.” He tapped the spoon against the side of the pan, the sound like a gong. “And families from all over Europe, bringing their own dishes. Jambalaya. Fried chicken and catfish. Pot roast and chicken and dumplings. Macaroni and red beans and rice. The things people want to take with them. The things they want to remember.”

He tossed Bruce a turnover, and Bruce managed to catch it. “The rest, I picked up as I went. Jarvis helped, with the things Mr. Stark particularly liked, and staff were hired for the big house parties and the like, and I learn a lot by watching someone else do their thing. But mostly, I fumbled through, learning as I went.”

“And throwing knives at anyone who didn’t move out of the way fast enough,” Bruce mumbled into his pastry.

“Never hit anyone, did I?” Clint asked. 

Steve looked at him. “So where did Natasha-”

“The Russian Ballet,” Clint said. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Clint laughed. “She can still pirouette like a champ.”

“So,” Steve said, drawing the word out. “You’re from the circus. She’s from the ballet.” He looked at Bruce. “Where did Stark find you, in the Ziegfeld Follies?”

Bruce stopped, his eyes blinking rapidly. He brushed the crumbs of the pastry off of his hands, and nodded. He looked up, meeting Steve’s eyes. “In a grave,” he said, his smile never wavering. He nodded at Clint. “Save me some, uh, something for lunch? I’ve got to weed the back garden, and-”

“I’ll make sure it’s still warm for you,” Clint said, and with another grateful nod, Bruce slipped back out the door and out of sight.

Steve watched him go. “Why is it,” he mused, “that every question I ask make things even more confusing?”

Without looking up from his pan, Clint snagged a turnover and tossed it to Steve, who snagged it one handed out of the air. “Because you’re finally making progress.”

Steve broke the pastry in half, revealing the hidden cache of golden brown apples, dripping with cinnamon syrup. “Right,” he said, wishing he believed that.

*

“No.”

“You’re being inflexible, and that disappoints me. The way you’re-” Tony made a gesture at Peter’s face. “This face displeases me.”

 

Peter took a deep breath. “You can’t just START him on advanced calculus, Mr. Stark. You-” His pencil beat a rapid tattoo on the paper. “We need to make sure he has a solid grounding in the basics, otherwise-” His eyes narrowed. “Chaos.”

Tony leaned his hands on the workbench. “Math is best when it’s chaos, Parker.”

“That is absolutely incorrect,” Rhodey said, flipping through one of Peter’s old school books. “Multiplication-”

“Is boring, and so is math,” Tony said, just to see the scandalized look that crossed Peter’s face. He hid a smile behind his coffee cup. “Boring, Parker. You’re boring the child. He could be building something now. He could be DESTROYING something now, and instead-” Tony picked up a piece of paper at random and threw it in the air. It was more satisfying than it should’ve been. “Math.”

Peter snagged the page out of the air. “Don’t listen to him,” he said to DJ, who was watching the whole exchange, a grin on his face. “Math is very interesting. Not as interesting as science-”

 

“Blasphemy!” Tony told him.

“But still, I like math, and I bet you like math,” Peter said to DJ. “Once you learn the rules, it’s very logical and that’s nice. It’s nice for things to occasionally make sense, and you not a lot of things do in this world.”

Rhodey looked over the top of the book at him, one eyebrow arched. “How old are you again?” he asked.

“He’s twelve,” Tony said. Peter opened his mouth and Tony kept going without a hint of shame. “You’re twelve, I got you to twelve, and then I stopped paying attention to any numbers that happened after that, and do you know why?”

“Because you’re an ass?” Rhodey asked.

“Because you can’t remember, and it’s easier to pretend that you’re doing that deliberately?” Peter asked, and Rhodey let out a low, admiring whistle.

Tony stared them down. “Because it’s a number, and numbers-” He tossed some more pages, because it made DJ laugh. “Are boring.”

“You love numbers,” Rhodey said, as Peter heaved a very long-suffering sigh, pushing himself off of his stool to go and collect the papers. DJ was there before him, snatching them up and darting around Tony’s legs.

“I love engineering, and numbers are an unfortunate part of engineering,” Tony told him. “And really-”

The door to the workshop swung open and Pepper strode in, her shoulders squared, her heels snapping against the floor. “A week,” she said. “You couldn’t even make it a week. I asked one thing from you, just one thing, and-”

Tony considered her over the rim of his cup. “That-” he said, pointing it at her. “Is a lie.”

She came to a stop in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, her chin up, her cheeks flushed. “I asked one thing of you recently,” she corrected herself. She leaned in, and Tony leaned back, all the way back. “I asked you, very politely, not to seduce our guest.”

Everyone went still. Tony pointed at Peter, never breaking eye contact with Pepper. “Parker. Earmuffs.”

Peter obligingly put his hands over his ears, and Tony’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “Parker. Not you.” He pointed at DJ, who was taking in this new development with his usual wide eyed curiosity. “DJ.”

Peter blinked at him. “Oh,” he said at last. “Because, when Aunt May says ‘earmuffs,’ she wants me to cover my ears, mostly so she can yell at you and I thought that was what-”

“Yes, and you are no longer the smallest and most impressionable person in the room,” Tony said. He pointed at DJ again. “Earmuffs.” 

Peter covered DJ’s ears. DJ frowned, his head tipping back to look up at him, his expression betrayed. “Sorry,” Peter told him.

Tony looked back at Pepper and immediately regretted it. “What makes you think-” he started.

“Because this morning, Jarvis made up a tray with two plates,” Peter said. Tony’s eyes squeezed shut. “And he was singing opera. And he went to put a flower in a bud vase on the tray, and then he said that was probably too much and put the flower in his lapel instead.”

Tony glared in Peter’s direction. Peter didn’t seem to notice. “Right, and maybe it was for them,” Tony said, gesturing between Rhodey and Pepper. “Did you ever-”

“We were in the kitchen,” Rhodey said, scribbling some notes in the margins of one of the textbooks. “I don’t think they did this formula right, let me just-”

“That doesn’t mean-” Tony started.

“We were all there,” Pepper said, her voice flat. 

Tony paused. “Everyone?”

Her teeth flashed in a dangerous sort of smile. “With two very notable exceptions.”

“And after Jarvis left, Clint gave Natasha money,” Peter said. DJ pushed at his hands. “Can I stop-”

“No,” everyone said in unison.

Peter sighed “And anyway, Natasha’d never bet on anything involving Miss Potts.”

“But she’d bet on her employer?” Tony asked, trying to work up some indignation about that..

“All the damn time,” Rhodey muttered. “It’s the number one form of entertainment in this house.” He flipped a page. “Sometimes it’s not even for money. Just bragging rights. Or chores.”

“I’m so pleased I can entertain,” Tony said, his voice withering. To Pepper, he said, “You never specifically asked me not to-”

“It was heavily implied,” she said.

“I understand this isn’t ideal, based on the circumstances, but I want it known, I didn’t seduce him, he seduced me.”

Pepper considered him, her mouth a flat line. “I don’t believe you.”

Tony opened his mouth, and she held up a finger in front of his face, a very clear warning sign. Tony took a step back. “Well, he kissed me first, that should count for something, and besides-”

“Tony.” Pepper pressed a hand to her eyes. “Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s possible,” Tony said. “I’m not certain why you’re acting surprised at this late date, Pepper, it’s just, it smacks of a certain lack of understanding of the situation, and really, you should be beyond that by this point, it’s not-”

“Did he tell you where he went yesterday?” she asked, cutting him off with ruthless efficiency. “After-” her eyes flicked towards Peter and DJ, and then back to Tony. “When Happy went back to the theater, he couldn’t find him, did you find out where he went?”

Tony took a deep breath. “It didn’t come up,” he said.

“Because something else was up?” Pepper asked. Peter uncovered DJ’s ears and covered his own. Pepper gave him a sideways look. “Sorry, Peter.”

“I’m just, I’m more comfortable like this,” Peter said, and DJ, freed, dragged a book across the workbench and went back to reading it. “I’ll just… Earmuffs.”

“I feel like joining you,” Tony said. “Pepper-”

“Do you know where he’s gone today, at least?” Pepper asked Tony.

Tony’s stomach iced over. “Today?”

“He left. Half an hour ago,” Pepper said. “I placed a call to his precinct, asking if they’d be needing him back today, or in the immediate future.” She exhaled. “The response I received was that they had no plans to reassign him.”

The rush of relief that flooded over him caught him by surprise. He did not want to think too much about that. “So just ask Happy where-”

“He didn’t take a car,” Pepper said. “Happy didn’t even know he was gone until I told him.” Her lips were set in a tight line. “He just walked out the front gate, and-” She shook her head. 

“And now no one knows.” Tony rubbed his forehead. “Fine. All right. Fine.”

“Really,” Pepper said, her voice tired. “Fine?”

Tony’s hand dropped back to his side. “All right, it’s not fine, but what else am I supposed to say?” he asked. And that came out sharper than he intended. Pepper just arched an eyebrow at him, and he took a deep breath. “It’s not fine. But it’s…” His mouth worked. “I’ll handle it.”

Everyone looked at him. Including DJ. Tony raised a beseeching look towards the ceiling. “Does anyone else have demands they’d like to make of me right now?”

“I’m starting to feel like I should be asking for a raise, honestly,” Rhodey said. 

“You’re all getting fed today and you’re going to be happy with that,” Tony told him. “Now-”

“Shield.”

Everyone stopped, and Tony looked at DJ, who was still studiously copying strings of figures. Tony leaned in. “What?”

“Shield,” DJ repeated. One leg swung back and forth, bouncing against the rungs of his stool. “That’s where.”

“I don’t-”

The workshop door flew open. “TONY.”

He barely had a chance to brace himself before he was hit sideways. He staggered, grabbing for the workbench to keep himself upright. “I’m injured,” he pointed out, not that he expected that to change anything.

Jan stared up at him from under her perfectly smooth bangs, her eyes huge and full of tears. “And I had to find out from the NEWSPAPER,” she said.

“I was going to call you, but you cry about these things,” Tony said. “Which, I’ll admit, makes me quite uncomfortable.”

“That’s why I do it,” Jan said, still hugging his arm. She sniffled, and, with a sigh, Tony pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket. She took it, dabbing at her eyes with a dainty touch. “You’re a cad, Anthony Edward Stark. A horrible cad.”

“So I’ve been told.” But Tony brushed a kiss on her head. “I’m fine, the bullet merely grazed me, my crack team of operatives spirited me away in a matter of moments, DJ has forgiven me for ruining his first time at the picture show, and I’ve been told that I’m being indulged with all my favorite foods at dinner, if you’d care to stay.”

She gave his arm one last squeeze, and stepped back. “Pepper, how do you LIVE with him?” she asked.

“Many, many stiff cups of tea,” Pepper said. “And the occasional box of Swiss chocolates.”

DJ looked up at ‘chocolate,’ showing interest in the conversation for the first time since it had started. Pepper smiled at him. “In fact, I’m sure I’ve still got a few, secreted away. What do you say, boys? Would you like to join Miss Van Dyne and myself for a cup of tea and a bit of chocolate?”

“Yes,” DJ said, his voice firm, and Peter nodded.

“Are we invited?” Rhodey asked, shutting the notebook.

“I suppose so, but you’re responsible for keeping Tony from taking more than two pieces of chocolate,” she said.

“I’ll use the small child to wheedle additional pieces,” Tony said, holding his hands out to DJ, who took them and swung down to the ground, his feet kicking for an instant. It was enough to make Tony ignore the spike of pain from his side. “Right?”

“Any additional pieces he steals, he’s keeping,” Rhodey told Tony. “He’s crafty.”

“And he likes chocolate,” Peter said. 

“Right,” Tony said. But DJ was still there, grinning up at him, and Tony shook his head. “I’ll just have to suffer.” Which,honestly, was starting to sound prophetic. He managed a smile. “How about Miss Potts and I meet everyone in the parlor?”

Rhodey stood, as Peter held out hand to DJ. “How long do you need?” Rhodey asked.

“Just… Give us a minute?”

Rhodey nodded, and offered Jan his elbow. “I think we can suffer through without you.”

“But do hurry, darling,” Jan said, taking Rhodey’s arm. “Or I’ll have eaten all the sweets.”

“A risk I’m willing to take,” Tony said. He waited until the were all gone, and turned to Pepper. “Do you really think he’s a threat?”

She bit her lower lip. “If I did,” she said at last, “He wouldn’t still be in his house, Tony. But…”

Her voice trailed away, and Tony nodded. “But,” he agreed. “I’ve placed a lot of trust in someone I barely know.” He pushed his hair back. “Haven’t I.”

“We trust you.” Pepper pulled his hand away from his hair. “Stop it, you’re making a mess. We do trust you. And I find-” She exhaled. “I want to trust him. More than I feel I should. Hill’s never steered us wrong, but she’s never kept us in the dark this long, either.”

“Right. Mistakes. Mistakes were made.” Tony took a deep breath. “Won’t be made again.”

Pepper turned towards the door. “You can lie to me, Tony, but don’t start believing it. That’s… That’s when we’re in trouble.”

Tony followed after her. As if they weren’t already in trouble.

And he was absolutely not doing that again. No matter how much he wanted to, and oh, God, did he want to.

He could learn from his mistakes, for once.

*

The house was quiet.

Steve paused on the second floor landing, looking out across the rolling grounds. Here and there, he could see men patrolling, their positions marked by the glow of lanterns and flashlights. The walls appeared through the gloom, caught in slim circles of light. He looked down, beside the gardens, but the greenhouse was exempt from the nocturnal movements. It was as still and silent as the house, the windows gleaming in the pale moonlight.

Shaking his head, Steve headed up the hall to his room. A few hours of sleep, and then he could head back out, before anyone even knew he was back.

His hands flexed at his side, trying to work the ache out of his bones, out of his knuckles. He probably should’ve gone back to his flat, instead of here. It would’ve been faster. And safer. But something drew him back to this house, something that he needed to start fighting. But tonight, he was tired, and he craved silence.

He shook his head. “Right,” he muttered under his breath. “Silence. That’s what you’re after, Rogers. Right. Pull the other one.”

But Tony was likely already asleep, and even if he wasn’t, there was no chance that Steve was going to go looking for him. He reached for his doorknob, sparing one last glance over his shoulder. He wasn’t surprised to find that he was still alone.

He opened the door to his room and stopped short.

Tony was seated at the desk next to the bed, his jacket hanging from the chair behind him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his vest unbuttoned. His dark hair was rumpled, showing clear furrows where his fingers had dug through the locks. The lamp cast the planes of his face in stark relief, accenting the high arch of his cheekbones and sweep of his lips.

Steve stood, frozen in the door, watching in stunned silence as Tony pushed the blueprints flat with one quick sweep of his hand, the tip of his pencil darting over the paper.

“Welcome home,” Tony said, not even looking up from his work. “How was your day?”

Steve swayed on his feet, not sure why his heart was pounding so hard in his chest. “What are you…”

His voice trailed away, and he didn’t know what he’d been trying to say. Tony glanced up at him, his dark brows arched. “Well, it’s my house,” he said, his tone wry. “But I do usually respect a closed door.” His head tipped to the side. “But I followed the other intruder in.”

Steve looked past him. There, at the foot of the bed, DJ was curled into a loose ball of limbs around Furbro, one bare foot trailing across the quilt, and one hand resting gently on Furbro’s flank. The cat was purring, a low sustained rumble, and DJ was snoring along with him.

“He was a bit worried when you didn’t show up for dinner,” Tony said. He pushed the chair back, standing up with a slight groan. He braced his hands on the small of his back, arching backwards. “Remind me to have that chair burned.”

He crossed to the bed, and reached out, one hand brushing gently over DJ’s head. When his eyes fluttered open, Tony smiled down at him, his expression warm and open for an instant. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said, his voice soft. “He’s back.”

DJ squinted up at Tony, who stepped back, tucking his hands in his pockets. Steve struggled to smile. “Hi,” he whispered. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

DJ yawned. “Waiting,” he said, and yawned again. He blinked, slow and sleepy. “Late.”

“I know,” Steve reached out, stroking Furbro’s head. The cat arched into his fingers, his purring ratcheting up a notch. “You should be used to that.”

“Still bad,” DJ said, sitting up.

“Still very bad,” Tony agreed. “But he’s back now, safe and sound.” His eyes slid in Steve’s direction, his face unreadable. “But time to ring for-”

There was a slight tap on the door, and then Mrs. Parker bustled in, a covered plate in one hand. “I’m here,” she said. “DJ, go wash your face and put on your pajamas. Peter can’t go to bed until you’re tucked in as well. Mr. Stark, you can help him.” She pushed Tony’s paperwork to the side and set the plate down. “Officer Rogers, sit and eat.”

Everyone stood there, staring at her, and she clapped her hands. “It’s late, and I’m quite tired, and you’re keeping me from my bed.”

“Right, I can-” Steve said, and she pointed at the desk. “I can sit.”

“That’s right, you can.” She smiled at DJ. “Go on, now.”

He slid off the bed, and wandered in the direction of his own room, rubbing at his eyes as he went. Tony followed behind him, his hands still held loosely in his pockets. “First thing we’re going to do,” he said, “is teach you how to wash your own face, because this seems a less efficient use of my time.”

Steve watched them go. “He can get himself ready for bed,” he said to Mrs. Parker. “He’s been doing it for years.”

She smiled. “This isn’t for him,” she said. “It’s for Mr. Stark. If DJ is going to stay, then it will be his responsibility to make sure that DJ is taken care of. He needs to get used to that sooner, rather than later.” She tipped her head forward, peering at Steve over the rims of her glasses. “And you need to learn that if you’re not going to be here for dinner, you need to tell us.”

Steve sank into the chair. “I’m not used to-” He shook his head. “I didn’t figure anyone would notice.”

Mrs. Parker made a disapproving sound under her breath. “Officer Rogers, I think it’s time you realized that we notice everything.” She lifted the lid. “Such as tonight. Bobbi was on watch, and while she noticed you coming in, I suspect you didn’t notice her. She notified Clint, who made up a plate and rang me and here we all are.”

She pointed at the plate. “Now, eat.”

Steve did as he was told. Satisfied, Mrs. Parker headed over to the bed. “Will you be joining us as well?” she asked Furbro, scratching the cat behind the ear. “Or will you be keeping the good Officer company tonight?”

“He comes and goes as he pleases,” Steve said. The meal was a simple one, cold roast chicken, thick slices of bread with cheese, and a variety of pickled vegetables. But he was grateful for every bite. 

“As is his right, as the house’s cat,” Mrs. Parker said. She fluffed Steve’s pillows. “I’ve always wanted one. But Mr. Stark seemed quite set against animals.” She straightened up. “I find I’m quite pleased with the changes DJ has made to the household already.”

Smiling, Steve smoothed down the blueprints next to his plate. He didn’t know what they were for, he didn’t have the technical background to figure that out. But he could see the artistry in them, the beauty of the lines, the smooth, steady hand that had gone into the work. He reached out, tracing a fingertip along one arch.

God, he was in deep already.

“All right, one small child, freshly scrubbed and pressed,” Tony said, ushering DJ back into the room. “I even combed his hair.”

“I’m quite impressed,” Mrs. Parker said, holding her hands out to DJ. “Can you say good night?” she asked.

“Night,” DJ said.

“Night,” Steve said. Other words, words that weren’t his right to say, stuck in his throat, and he managed a smile. “I’ll be here for breakfast tomorrow.”

DJ nodded. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Steve said.

Seemingly satisfied with that, DJ took Mrs. Parker’s hand and gave them both a wave. A moment after they left the room, Furbro stood, stretched, and jumped down off the bed, padding after them with a flick of his tail.

“Was that the truth?”

He looked back to find Tony sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand braced beside him on the mattress. Steve’s heartbeat accelerated, and he shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the way his body tightened at the sight. “Yes.”

Tony nodded. “Where did you go today?”

“I had work to do,” Steve said. He took the last bite of chicken, and dropped his fork to the plate. 

“And here I thought you’d been assigned to me for the duration,” Tony said.

“I am,” Steve said. “And I was looking into something.”

“Want to tell me what that might be?” Tony asked.

For some reason, Steve found himself smiling. “What, are you the only one allowed to have secrets?” He stood. 

“Yes,” Tony said, and it sounded so petulant that Steve nearly burst out laughing. Instead, he found himself moving towards the bed. Tony looked up at him. “That is absolutely-”

“Stay,” Steve breathed, and leaned over, his mouth catching Tony’s just as his lips parted. From there, it was an easy thing to maneuver him back onto the bed, until he was sprawled out under Steve, his hands tangled in Steve’s hair.

“I dislike your secrets,” Tony said, the words muffled in the side of Steve’s throat, and he shuddered. 

“Yeah, well, I hate yours, and you’ve been teasing me along for a week,” Steve said, the words almost a growl. He pulled back, just far enough to see Tony’s face. “A bit of payback, Mr. Stark.”

Tony was breathing hard, his lips swollen, his eyes huge and dark. “The we’re operating under the same rules?” he asked, and his voice sent a shudder along Steve’s skin. “As long as the door’s unlocked, nothing’s off limits?”

Getting into a battle of wits with this man was not a good idea. He wasn’t going to win. He might not even survive. But he was so aroused that it hurt, and somehow, that just seemed right. “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered. “And you can ask whatever questions you want.”

Tony’s smile was sharp and deadly and Steve loved it. “I still have you in check,” he whispered. “And you don’t have many pieces left on the board.”

“Only need one,” Steve whispered. 

It might've been a bad choice. And he didn't even care.


	11. Chapter 11

“Are there fairies in America?”

“What?” His mother paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. She smiled, her eyes warm. “Whatever are you on about, Stevie?”

Steve shifted in his chair, his legs kicking the air as he tried to find a comfortable position. “Are there fairies in America?” he repeated, rolling the bit of pencil between his fingers. He smoothed a wrinkle out of the paper, careful not to pull too hard. The scraps his mother salvaged from the trash at the hospital were almost always crumbled, but he preferred them to the sheets of newsprint he could find on his own. “I was wondering.”

“Och, and that always goes so well for us, doesn’t it?” his mother said. But she was laughing, so it was okay. She turned her attention back to her pot of soup, shaking her head as the steam curled around her face. “What brought this up?”

“Dunno.” He bent over the paper, squinting to see, and wishing the light was a bit better. He shifted to the side, folding one leg under him, trying to get a better angle. 

“Really,” his mother said, her voice flat. “You don’t know why you’re suddenly asking about the old ones?” She propped a hand on her hip, her head tipped to the side. A single curl of copper-gold hair had slipped free of her pins and she pushed it back with an impatient hand. “Has Mrs. Doyle been filling your head with wild tales again?”

Steve shrugged. “Bucky likes her.”

His mother rolled her eyes. “Bucky likes that tea of hers, thick as treacle it is.” She turned her attention back to the soup. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Stevie, but I do know that it’s bad luck to speak of them.”

Steve frowned down at the line that wobbled across his page. He shook the ache out of his hand. “Why?”

“Because it calls their attention down on you,” his mother said. She took a sip from her spoon, her eyes narrowed. “And no good comes of that.”

“But if there aren’t any Fairies in America, then how would they hear us?” Steve asked. His mother gave him a look, and he straightened up in his chair. “Can they hear us, all the way from Ireland, then?”

She let out a soft laugh, her head shaking. “You’re too clever by half again,” she said, but she turned to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. “If there were old ones here, Stevie, I would think they’d long since been driven from this place, where there’s nothing green left, and precious little sky. The steel and stone covered this island, long, long ago.”

She pulled a bowl from the shelf beside the cookstove. “And if there’s one thing that the old ones disliked, it was the things that we built, the way we pushed back the woods and leveled the hills, making roads and castles and towns and places they could not go.”

Steve watched as she filled the bowl, cradling the well worn china in the hollow of one hand. “But were they here?” he asked, as she set it in front of him. “Once?”

“Many things were here once,” his mother said. “Many wild and wonderful things, I should think, and then we came and took what had once been theirs.” Her smile was soft and light, but her eyes were sad. “That’s the way of people, Steve. There’s always some who’ll take, no matter what damage they do to the rest of the world.”

Steve scowled down at his soup. “They shouldn’t.”

“No.” She reached out, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Her fingers were rough, scarred from decades of hard work, but her touch was gentle. “No, they shouldn’t.” She leaned over, kissing him on top of the head. “And best you remember that.”

Steve smiled at her. “I’ll remember.”

“That’s my bright boy,” his mother said, turning back to the pot. She filled a second bowl, glancing back at him as she did. “What did Mrs. Doyle tell you?”

Steve set his paper aside without being told. “Just old stories. And the old rules.”

His mother took a seat across the table from him. “And what might those be?” she asked, reaching for the teapot.

“Do not go down beneath the hill,” Steve said, his voice soft. Almost reverent. Bits of the old language was mixed with the new, and he shifted in his seat, remembering the thrill of fear her dire warnings had brought him. “As some gates, once opened, cannot be closed again. Do not follow the sound of the mournful horn. It guides you down dark paths, and you’ll have no such help getting back. Do not drink from their cups. Even their water is like wine, and you will lose yourself.”

He dipped his spoon into the soup, stirring it and watching the steam rise from the surface. “And do not take gold from their hand. In the light of day, you’ll find you’ve sold your soul for a fallen leaf or hedgeberry, shriveled and brittle.”

Steve looked at his mother, who was watching him, her cheek balanced on her palm, smiling at him. “Are there fairies in America?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Those are old stories, of an old land. The fairies are long gone, my darling boy, like the ancient woods and deep, dark places they hid. There’s nothing like that here.” She picked up her teacup. “Still.”

“Still?” Steve asked, before slurping the soup from his spoon.

“Manners,” she chided with a smile. “And still. Don’t speak of them.”

He grinned at her. “If they’re not real-”

“We don’t tempt fate, you and I, we know better than that.” She bent her head to her soup. “Don’t we?”

“Yes, Ma.” Steve fished a potato out of the soup with the tip of his spoon. “Want to know what I think?”

“Always.”

“That there may not be fairies,” Steve said. He glanced at the one window in the kitchen, something his mother had fought and paid dearly for. There was precious little light outside the dull glass, but there was enough. “But there’s something else. Something different. Something…”

His mother waited, patient and quiet. Steve looked at her. “Something just as scary,” he admitted.

She smiled. “Perhaps,” she allowed. She sipped her tea. “Want to know what I think?”

Steve grinned. “Always.”

“I think a good American boy like yourself’ll be just fine.” She saluted him with her cup before she set it back on the table. “No matter what.”

Steve’s eyes flicked open, his heart in his throat.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, or how he’d got there. Threads of memories and dreams tangled together, and his sleep-dull mind struggled to separate them. He shifted in his bed, half expecting his back to ache or his legs to seize up, the way they had when he’d been young.But his body moved without a hint of protest, his skin sliding easily against linens as soft as silk. 

One hand slid across the width of the bed, looking for something he couldn’t quite remember, but when he didn’t find it, the sense of loss was staggering.

The soft crackle of a fire was interrupted by a thump, and Steve rolled over, squinting into the soft glow of the firelight. Tony was seated in front of the fire, the poker held easily in one hand, and for a moment, Steve just stared at him, captivated by the scene. 

A shirt was draped across Tony’s shoulders, hanging open and loose against his chest and pooling around his hips. The rest of him was bare, and the firelight gilding every inch of his skin, and casting sparks along the dark threads of his hair. There was a blanket beneath him, spilling across the cold marble of the hearth and onto the floor. 

As Steve watched, his pulse thudding in his ears, Tony reached out and tossed another log into the flames, shadows playing along the sharp planes of his face as he poked it into place. He drew one leg up, leaning his forearm against the curve of his knee, and the fabric of the shirt shifted against his skin, dipping into the angle of his shoulder, the arch of his back. He was beautiful and graceful and unearthly, untouched or untroubled by the cinders that floated past him like falling stars. 

Steve’s lips parted. “Is that my shirt?”

Tony glanced back at him, a smile curling his lips. “Probably,” he said, his voice laconic. “It’s your room, after all.” He held up an arm, watching as the sleeve slid back to settle against his elbow, the fireplace poker held almost like a sword. “It would make perfect sense that this is your shirt.”

“You had one when you got here,” Steve grumbled. He pushed his hair back, away from his eyes. “Almost certain you had one when you got here.”

“Oh, I did, but someone removed it,” Tony said, setting the poker back into the rack. “With a great deal of enthusiasm, as I recall. Heaven only knows where it ended up.”

Steve felt his face heat. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” he said. He bunched a pillow in his arms, telling himself he wasn’t hiding in its depths. “It’s not as if I tossed it out the window.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Tony said. He rolled to his feet, all feline grace and easy strength, and Steve’s shirt was just a bit too big on him, draping low around his hips and hands. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. “I was cold, and it was convenient.”

He leaned over to collect the blanket, and a small red notebook from the hearth. “Have you even lit this fire since you were assigned this room?”

Steve was so captivated by the easy way that Tony moved that he barely noticed the question. After a moment, he tore his eyes away from Tony’s legs to find him waiting an answer, a faint, amused smile on his face. Steve blinked at him. “Sorry, what?”

Tony tossed the blanket on foot of the bed and crawled in next to Steve. “Have you not been lighting the fire?” he asked, and he didn’t bother to take off Steve’s shirt before he settled back against the headboard. 

“No,” Steve said. He reached out, pushing the shirt back so he could check Tony’s bandages.

“I’m fine,” Tony said, his attention already on the small notebook in his hand. Steve made a humming noise under his breath, and Tony swatted at his hand with the book. “Off.”

Laughing, Steve pulled his hand back. “Fine,” he mumbled into his pillow. “See if I try to check on you again, you ungrateful ass.”

“The last thing I need is someone else grumbling at me.” Tony flipped through the pages of the small notebook, the book braced on one knee, and Steve’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that my sketchbook?” he asked, pushing himself up on one elbow.

Tony’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s definitely a book you’ve been sketching in,” he said, turning another page. “I found it under the shirt.” His head tipped to the side as he considered the cover of the book. “Though it seems a lot like the ones I use, too.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Jarvis gave it to me,” he said. “And said I could use it.”

“He is quite free with other people’s things,” Tony agreed.

“That’s rich, coming from the fella who helped himself to the contents of my pockets,” Steve pointed out..

“We agreed,” Tony said, his voice breezy, “that what’s good for the copper’s good for the tycoon. You left it out, I get to satisfy my…” His smile stretched into a wicked grin, and Steve lost his breath. “Curiosity.”

Steve shifted on the bed, trying to ignore his reaction to that single word. “And?” he asked.

Tony glanced at him. “And?” he repeated.

“Are you…” Steve resisted the urge to bury his face in his pillow again. “Satisfied?”

Tony sighed. “Not really,” he admitted, his eyes half hidden behind the dark sweep of his lashes. “You’ve drawn everyone in the household except me.”

That startled a laugh out of Steve. Tony gave him a look, doing his best to look hurt. “No, really. Look at this.” He held up the book. “Clearly, we have Pepper working on the ledgers. Rhodey working on one of the cars.” He flipped the pages. “Mrs. Parker threatening Clint with a a set of measuring spoons.”

“She knows he’s never going to use them, doesn’t she?” Steve asked.

“One on a long list of things our chef is never going to do,” Tony said. “But if there’s anyone as stubborn as him, it’s Mrs. Parker, and so our kitchen remains an active battleground.” He half turned to Steve, scowling down at the sketchbook. “Jarvis and Natasha. Bobbi in the garden. Bruce with his flowers.”

Steve watched him flip the pages, amused despite himself. “I didn’t think your ego needed any further stroking,” he said.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Tony told him. “My ego can always use a good stroking, sir, and I’ve no objection to you doing just that.” His hands went still, and his expression softened into a slight, easy smile. “I like this one.”

Caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice, Steve glanced down at the book. The sketchbook was small, too small for him to have captured much detail. But the subject of that particular drawing was obvious. 

He’d drawn Peter and DJ in the act of collecting pears from one of the trees down in the orchard. Peter was perched on a branch, a basket propped on his hip, a bare foot braced against the tree trunk. Above him, DJ was tangled in the limbs, his suspenders hanging down around his hips, pears piled high in fabric of his shirt. It was a rough sketch, more for composition and placement, but there was a warmth to it, a feeling of youthful freedom that shone through, even in the simple, straightforward lines.

Steve glanced back up at Tony, who was still studying the picture, a soft smile on his face. “You’ve got a real talent,” he said, and Steve struggled against the wave of pleasure that washed over him. Tony’s fingers traced along the edge of the page. “Why were you doing draftsmanship instead of illustration?”

Steve chuckled. “Being hungry tends to make you practical,” he said, half rolling on his side. “You can have it, if you want.”

He regretted the words, almost before they were out of his mouth, but Tony nodded. “I do, actually,” he said. “And was trying to find a socially acceptable way to demand it.”

Steve gave him a look. “Saying ‘please’ works in most cases, you do realize that, don’t you?” he asked, pulling the book from Tony’s hand and tossing it towards the bedside table. “And if you’re done rifling through my positions for the time being…”

Tony made a grab for it, missed and ended up sprawled half on top of Steve. “I’m really not,” he said, and Steve choked on a laugh. Tony pushed himself up, his hands braced on Steve’s chest. “Oh, do you find this funny?” he asked, his lips twitching.

“A bit,” Steve admitted. He yawned, one of his hands coming up to cover one of Tony’s. “You’re the one who woke me up in the middle of the night, stole my shirt, and started invading my privacy.”

“I work quickly when I want to,” Tony said. He shifted, throwing one leg over Steve’s and settling his weight on his knees, straddling Steve’s hips. He leaned over, his hands smoothing over Steve’s shoulders. “All right, my hungry fellow. I’ll be having that sketchbook of yours.”

Steve caught his waist, his breath hitching in his throat. “Oh, will you?” he asked, amused.

Tony leaned over, his mouth hovering just over Steve’s. “What do you want for it?” he whispered, the words hot against Steve’s lips.

Steve’s hands slid up, his fingers brushing against the rough edge of Tony’s bandages. He stilled, his eyes locked with Tony’s. “Stay here,” he said, and Tony blinked, his face going blank. “Promise me. That’ll you’ll stay here in the house, where you’re safe, until we find out-”

His hand hovered over Tony’s ribs, and Tony reached up, pressing Steve’s palm to his side. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice soft. “I won’t be a prisoner in my own house, Steve.”

Steve reared up, cupping a hand on the back of Tony’s neck. “Stay here,” he said, his voice tight. “Let me find out who’s after you.”

Tony’s eyes flicked over his face, a slight smile curling his lips. “That’s a very long list, officer, and I’ll be old and gray before you reach the end of it.”

“That’s… That’s kind of the point,” Steve said. He opened his mouth to say something else and Tony leaned in, cutting him off with a kiss. For a moment, Steve considered pushing him away, but he was already too addicted to the way Tony’s lips coaxed a reaction from him. He sank into the kiss, his fingers sliding into Tony’s hair.

When Tony finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. “God, you’re dangerous.”

The words sent a shiver of pleasure through him. “Stay here,” he repeated, the words whispered against Tony’s jaw. 

Tony laughed. “You could convince me,” he whispered back. “With very little effort.”

Steve dragged him down, his fingers tangled in the fabric of his own shirt, and tried not think about the morning.

*

“He finished, did he?”

Tony glanced up from his pocket watch. “He finished,” he agreed, as Jarvis set a cup of coffee by his elbow. “I don’t need the sandwich.”

Ignoring that, Jarvis set the plate directly in front of him. “Of course, sir.”

Tony sighed and reached for the coffee. “You’re just going to have to throw that away later,” he pointed out. “After it molds.”

“And should that come to pass, I shall of course be happy to handle the task, sir.” Jarvis tucked the tray under his arm, leaning over to peer into the face of the clock. “Hmm. I take it that it is keeping good time?”

Tony tapped a fingertip against the crystal face of his watch. “To the second.” He leaned back, considering the graceful sweep of the clock’s hand. “To say that it’s doing better than it was before he took it apart would be accurate, but also damning him with faint praise. The damn thing was always more decorative than functional.”

Tony snapped his watch shut and returned it to his pocket. “But yes. He fixed it.” 

Jarvis paused in the act tidying the workbench. “Was that not what you expected him to do?”

“I expected him to smash it.” Tony picked up a thin wafer of pickle from the plate, popping it into his mouth. “I handed him an expensive piece of trash and a hammer and told him to have fun.” He paused. “I would’ve smashed it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Jarvis said.

“All right, so I wouldn’t have, but I would’ve thought very seriously of doing it, and I don’t think he ever did. He just wanted to see what was on the inside of it, and then, once we got it open, he just wanted to know how it worked, and I-” Tony stopped. Took another bite of his sandwich. “Fine. So he fixed a clock.”

“That he did,” Jarvis agreed, stacking up Peter’s school books. “Shall I put these on the shelf, sir?”

“No, Parker’s supposed to come back for them,” Tony said, peeling a thin thread of cheese from the edge of his sandwich. “He was supposed to come back for them this morning, but did he remember?”

“He has school today, sir.” 

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. “No excuse,” he said, stabbing at the workbench with his fingertip. “And I’m not certain you’re actually correct about that.”

“Perhaps not, sir.” Jarvis scooped up the books, tucking them into a neat pile. “I’ll just put them on the shelf for now. To keep them out of the way until young Mister Parker does return to collect them.”

“Which he is never going to do,” Tony grumbled. “Sheds as he walks. His jacket on the stairs and his shoes in the hallway and his bookbag on the dining room table and-”

“Are these your socks?” Jarvis asked from the other side of the workbench. “And where is your left loafer, sir, how can you only have one shoe here, whatever have you done with the other?”

“I neither know nor care,” Tony said. He lifted the top slice of bread off of the sandwich. “Is this watercress?”

“Cucumber, sir,” Jarvis said. “Have you finished the engine reviews? Mr. Stane will be here to collect them at-”

“Rhodey has them, I had him run them over to the office an hour ago,” Tony said. 

“Which will not stop Mr. Stane from visiting,” Jarvis pointed out. He handed Tony his coffee cup.

“It might,” Tony said, taking a sip of his coffee. “He’s upset with me.”

“I cannot imagine that’s the case, sir.” Jarvis picked up the pencils DJ had been using, setting them in their box. Someone had written DJ’s name on it. Tony considered the handwriting. It looked rather like his.

“This whole thing was his idea,” Tony pointed out. 

“Despite the many years you’ve worked together, Mr. Stane still believes he can predict your reactions under all circumstances,” Jarvis said. 

“I’m unpredictable,” Tony said.

“It’s one of your finer qualities,” Jarvis agreed.

“He can’t stay,” Tony said.

Jarvis paused. “Can he not?” he asked. He reached across the workbench, picking up a tea cup from the night before. 

“You know he can’t,” Tony said. “You…” He stopped. “Know he can’t.”

Jarvis studied him for a long moment, then set about collecting the tea cups. “And why not?” he asked.

“Because I can barely take care of myself, let alone another…” Tony scraped a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he admitted. 

“That does happen, sir,” Jarvis agreed.

Tony gave him a look. “I can’t keep a child,” he pointed out. “It’s insane. The entire idea is insane. I don’t even know why we’re having this discussion.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said. “Especially not with me.” He reached in front of Tony, collecting the plate. Tony had no idea what had happened to the sandwich that had been on it. “After all, what would I possibly know about unexpectedly finding oneself charged with the care and keeping of a child?”

Tony blinked at the clock, and turned to find Jarvis smiling at him, his expression amused. “Completely different circumstance,” he pointed out. “Completely… It’s different.”

Jarvis nodded. “Ah, is it?”

“You could’ve quit,” Tony pointed out.

“Could I?” Jarvis set the plate on the tray, giving Tony’s coffee cup a speaking look. Tony picked it up, draining the last dregs before he handed it over. Jarvis took it with a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“I mean, unless there was something quite illegal about your employment contract with my father, then, yes, you absolutely could’ve quit.” Tony pushed himself upright. “So-”

Jarvis didn’t step back. He just stood there, a faint smile on his face. “No, sir. I could not.” He reached out, tapping Tony in the middle of the chest with a single finger. “And neither can you.”

He shifted the tray to his other hand. “Now, you have a guest, so-”

Tony realized his hand was covering his breastbone with one hand. He let it drop down to his side. “A guest, what do you mean-”

“Daaaaarling.” Jan swept into the workshop, a napkin covered basket thrown over her arm and her long silk scarf floating through the air behind her. “Tony, light of my life, how are you?” She braced a hand on Tony’s chest, going onto her toes to brush a kiss against each of his cheeks. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I just had to have a chat with Bobbi about that last bottle she sent home with me. Potent stuff, I must have more.”

“That’s not a guest,” Tony told Jarvis. “That’s a pest.”

“Manners, sir,” Jarvis said.

Jan took a mock swing at him with her basket. “How rude,” she sniffed. “And here I brought you a variety of delicious treats to speed up your recovery.” She shoved the basket into Tony’s hands and flounced her way across the workshop to the couch. “And this is the thanks I get?”

“Yes,” Tony said, peeking under the napkin. “Did you bring me any of that lemon curd?” Jarvis coughed into one fist. Tony gave him a look. “Thank you, Miss Van Dyne, it was too kind of you to think of me and make the trip out, specifically to inquire after my health and well-being.”

Jan gave him a narrow eyed look. “Jarvis, make it stop,” she said, tossing herself on the couch. “This whole display is unnatural and frankly quite terrifying.”

“Very good attempt, sir,” Jarvis told him, taking the basket out Tony’s hands. “Thank you, Miss Van Dyne, I shall have this emptied and returned to you in due course.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” she said, draping herself on the couch. She fluttered her eyelashes in Tony’s direction. “At least someone here is a gentleman.”

“He tried his damnedest,” Tony said. “It didn’t stick. But not for lack of trying.”

“Quite,” Jarvis said. He sounded amused. “Remember, sir, Mr. Stane will be-”

“Tell him I’m not here,” Tony said, as Jan groaned.

“Please do,” Jan said. “Last time I saw him outside of a meal, he spent twenty minutes lecturing me on my hemlines.” She pointed her feet. “Tony. Marry me.”

“You have a fiance, and you’d murder me in under a month,” Tony told her. He was fairly certain Jarvis was laughing as he left the room. Tony took a seat at the workbench, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not marrying you simply to annoy Obie.”

“But it would be such a marvelous joke,” Jan pointed out. She rolled over, folding her arms on the arm of the couch and leaning her chin on them. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Can you just imagine his face?”

Tony almost could. “I’m not sure I’m willing to secure a church just so you can taunt my business manager,” he said.

“But you’re still open to the possibility, wonderful.” Jan bounced back to her feet. “My mother said that the first marriage never sticks, in any case, I’d consider it a warm up for my marriage to Hank, we can figure out who’s worth inviting, just based on the wedding gifts and what flower arrangements just don’t work down in St. Marks, isn’t that totally worth the effort?”

Tony tapped a finger against his lips. “I think you need to run this plan past Hank,” he said, struggling not to laugh.

“He’ll barely notice,” Jan said. She wound her arms around Tony’s neck, giving him a very familiar pout. “I’ll just hide the papers from him for a week and by the time it blows over, he’ll have moved on to another project and won’t even notice the divorce filing.”

“As oblivious as Hank can be at times, I think someone will take great delight in letting him know,” Tony said. He leaned forward, bumping his forehead against hers, something they’d done since childhood. “You’re a menace, Van Dyne, but I know your tricks far too well.”

“You do, it’s so disappointing.” She leaned into him, and laughing, Tony wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “Don’t you dare try to comfort me, I’m not to be comforted.”

Tony kissed her hair. “What brought this on?” he asked. “What’s Hank done now?”

“Nothing,” she grumbled. Tony gave her a look, and she made a face. “No. Literally nothing. I’m fairly certain he’s forgotten that I exist again.”

“That is a lie and you know it, and marrying a childhood friend is not a way to get his attention,” Tony said. “Go home and drag him away from his laboratory before you try to have a discussion with him, because you know he can’t be trusted if there’s a bunsen burner in reach.”

“It would be so much easier to marry you,” Jan said. “You understand me.”

“And you might as well be my sister,” Tony pointed out.

Jan grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him in until their noses were almost touching. “Marry me,” she gritted out at the exact moment the door to the workshop opened.

Steve froze in the doorway, his hand still holding the doorknob. Tony froze, Jan plastered against his front, her lips mere inches from his. There was a moment of stillness. Steve’s eyes darted from Tony to Jan and back, a faint crease between his brows. “Am I… Interrupting?” he said at last.

“No,” Tony said, catching Jan’s hands and squeezing them as he took a step back. “Don’t mind her. She already has a fiance. What she doesn’t have, much to our dismay, is any sense of boundaries.”

Steve’s lips twitched. “Yeah, I got that when she fitted my pants.”

Jan gaped at him. “Well, I never,” she said, her face splitting in a broad grin.

“And that’s a lie,” Tony said, grinning back. “You absolutely have.”

Jan tossed her hair back with a flick of one hand. “That’s true,” she said, sounding proud of herself. “I have, I enjoyed it, and I’m likely to do it again.” She braced her hands on the edge of the workbench and gave a quick hop, boosting herself up to perch on the edge of the workspace. “You’re the one determined to ruin my good time.” She gave Steve a gamine grin. “A few years ago, Officer, Tony would’ve eagerly gone along with my prank.”

Steve’s eyes flicked towards Tony, who crossed his arms over his chest. “She wants to see if she can drive Obie to a heart attack by announcing our engagement,” he explained. 

“As much as he hates me, he’s pretty hardy,” Jan mused. “I really think we’d have to go through with the ceremony to get the full effect of his disapproval.”

“You’re trying to get him to marry you just to annoy Mr. Stane?” Steve asked.

“Also because it would be very funny,” Jan said, her legs swinging in mid-air. “But yes. Mostly to annoy the old prig.”

“As I don’t see that as the basis of a lifelong commitment or even a particularly good short term investment, I have gently declined the offer,” Tony said.

Steve looked at Jan. “I’ll do it.”

Tony blinked at him. “What.”

Jan leaned forward, her hands clamped on the edge of the workbench. “Oh, that’s nearly as good.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tony told her. “Steve-”

“Can we tell him today?” Steve asked, his blue eyes wicked and bright. “Preferably over a meal?”

“No,” Tony told him.

“Yes,” Jan breathed. “Oh, how marvelous, I’ve always wanted to cause a scene, can we still get a table at the Ritz, Tony? You’ll have to invite Obie, of course, he’ll suspect something if I bring it up, I should ring over immediately to-” She clapped her hands in front of her mouth. “I need a ring.”

“I’m going to have to ask you not to encourage her,” Tony said to Steve, who was struggling hard to keep a straight face. “No matter how much fun it might be.”

“It is fun,” Steve admitted.

“What are you even doing here?” Tony asked him, doing his best to ignore the way Jan was still muttering to herself under her breath.

“Mrs. Parker said that Peter left his books down here,” Steve said. “I met Jarvis on the way down, he said he’d put them on the shelf, so-” He shrugged. “I’m sure they’re in your way.”

“No.” Tony smiled. “No. They’re- Jarvis put them on the shelf, they’re not in anyone’s way.”

Steve nodded. Tony nodded back. “If you’re sure?” Steve said at last.

Tony smiled at him. “Quite sure.”

Steve nodded again. “All right,” he said. He turned to Jan, his smile taking on a puckish wickedness. “Miss Van Dyne. Always a pleasure.”

She held out a hand, and Steve stepped forward, taking it and raising it to his lips in a theatrical gesture. Tony stomped down on a wholly irrational spike of jealousy. “If you’ve ever a need for a good suit, I demand the right of first refusal,” she said. “If you’re going to jilt me so cruelly, you owe me that much.”

Laughing, Steve stepped back. “In the unlikely event that I ever need something that is worth your time and effort, I will definitely let you know.”

“I expect you will,” Jan said. “See you at dinner tonight?”

“I’ll bring a proposal, just-” Steve tugged on his ear. “Give me the signal.”

“Is she asking you to propose, or to steal third?” Tony asked, because this conversation was no longer about him, and he hated when that happened. 

“I like to keep my options open,” Jan told him. She blew a kiss in Steve’s direction. “See you at dinner.”

“Looking forward to it, Miss Van Dyne.” With a salute that didn’t seem at all mocking, Steve slipped out of the workshop, pulling the door shut firmly behind him. A moment later, the door opened again. Steve leaned back in. “Next time you’re going to propose?” he said. “Lock the door first.”

“I knew I forgot something,” Jan said.

“Stop encouraging her,” Tony called, and, laughing, Steve pulled the door shut again. Tony realized he was smiling at the door like a lovesick idiot and gave his head a sharp shake. “Anyway. Let’s-”

Jan snagged the back of his vest in one hand. “Anthony. Edward. Stark,” she purred, and Tony groaned. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” Tony said. “Absolutely-”

“Because just a few days ago,” Jan said, pulling him back towards her. “You would’ve gone along with my joke. You would’ve made it bigger. Worse.” She leaned her chin on Tony’s shoulder. “Less than a week ago, Mr. Stark, you would’ve done everything possible to make that cop believe we were seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off down here.”

“As it turns out,” Tony said, trying for dignity, “teasing a humorless stick like that is boring.”

Jan nodded. “That,” she mused, “may be the least convincing lie I’ve ever heard you try. And I was here when you tried to convince Jarvis that the second floor curtains spontaneously burst into flames.”

Tony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’s….” His face felt hot, and he pulled away from Jan. “He’s going to be gone soon, let’s not give him more to gossip about.”

Jan studied him, one eyebrow arched. “You slept with him.”

“No,” Tony said, and Jan let out a squeal, clapping her hands together. Tony winced. “Jan, no.”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s not really my type, but I can see the appeal,” Jan said. She leaned back, bracing her hands on the bench. “And more than just sleeping with him, you…” Her head tipped to the side, her eyes considering. “You like him.”

“I-” Tony’s eyes slid shut. “Yes. I do. I… Like him.” The words were all he could manage, all he was willing to admit, but they hurt. It hurt to say them, in a way that he couldn’t quite explain. “So. Leave it alone.”

Jan sighed. “Fine,” she said, a slight smile curving her lips. “He likes you, too.”

“Ah, does he?” Tony asked, trying to make it sound like the answer meant nothing to him.

“I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to dress him if I hadn’t seen the way he looked at you,” Jan said. She held her hands out to Tony, and he wrapped his hands around her narrow waist, giving her a boost off of the workbench and down to the floor. She braced her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself until she was back on her feet. As soon as she was, her hands slid down to straighten his vest. “I like him.” Her eyes canted up towards Tony’s. “Does he know?”

Tony took a deep breath. “No.”

She nodded. “Will he know?”

Tony’s eyes shut. “That depends on him.”

*

He should go out tonight.

Steve stepped into the hall, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. He was on his second lap of the house and his third of the grounds. He was going stir crazy, and every time he looked at the walls that surrounded the property, he felt that same prickle of unease.

Something wasn’t right.

Frustrated, Steve headed up the hall, checking each door he passed, each window. In some part of his head, he was counting steps, marking distances, looking for weaknesses. He’d memorized the floorplan days ago, and his patrols kept his occupied, but there was little to be gained from them. 

Steve needed to go out. Before he lost his mind.

He jogged down the hallway, heading for the stairs. Down below him, in the grand hall, he could see DJ and Peter standing in the middle of the floor, an array of buckets and mops surrounding them. As Steve started down the stairs, he considered the sheer amount of water and soap suds that were scattered across the stone floor and wondered just how long they’d been at this.

“Ready?” Peter asked, almost bouncing in place.

DJ dragged a wet rag out of the bucket, slapping it against the polished floor. “Ready,” he crowed, grabbing the rag with both hands. As Steve watched, amused despite himself, Peter grabbed DJ’s feet, lifting them up and tipping him forward so his weight was balanced on his hands, and the wet rag clutched between them.

And then he started running, pushing DJ in front of him like a wheelbarrow.

Steve propped his hands on his hips, trying not to laugh, as the boys swerved back and forth across the grand hall, leaving a wobbly, uneven streak of wet stone behind them. Their peels of laughter drowned out the pounding of their feet, and after several minutes of tearing in circles, they stumbled to a stop. DJ flopped onto the floor, Peter collapsing next to him.

“Right,” Peter said between bouts of giggles. “Excellent work. That was-” He hiccuped. “Again?”

DJ, still lying flat on his back, thrust his hands in the air. “AGAIN!”

Shaking his head, Steve headed down the stairs as the boys collected themselves and tumbled back towards the buckets, splashing water in all directions as they set themselves up for another run at the floor.

Mrs. Parker was seated on the bottom step of the grand staircase, her back leaning against the carved newel post, a basket of apples next to her feet. There was a bowl in her lap, cradled in a tea towel, and another by her side, full of peeled fruit. She was watching the boys, a faint smile on her face, while she ran a knife under the delicate skin of the fruit

“They’re not doing a particularly good job,” Steve said, sinking down onto the step beside her.

She chuckled, glancing in his direction. “They’ll get it done,” she said, her voice serene. Her hands never stopped moving, the peel falling away from the blade of her knife and into the waiting bowl. She paused, cutting away a chunk of bruised flesh. “And God Almighty knows, they both have time for a bit of play.”

The boys ran past, Peter’s feet sliding on the wet floor. Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to hide his smile. “And more than enough energy,” he said.

“That, too.” Mrs. Parker nodded at the basket of unpeeled apples. “And if you need a job, those need to be checked for bad spots and worm holes.”

Steve reached for the basket. “Yes, ma’am.” DJ caught his eye from across the hall and raised his hand in a wave. He hit Peter in the face with his rag, and Steve choked on a laugh. “I think they’re both going to need a bath,” he said to Mrs. Parker as he waved back.

“I suspect you’re right.” Mrs. Parker gave him a look. “So word below stairs is that you’ve been asking how the staff came to be here,” she said, holding her hand out for an apple.

Steve handed one over. “I think I can be forgiven for wanting to know how Stark ended up with a French chef who wasn’t a chef, or French.”

Mrs. Parker chuckled, an impish gleam in her eye. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” she said, wiping the blade of her knife on the tea towel. “Straight from Paris, that one.”

“Oh, clearly,” Steve agreed. “I just didn’t realize there was a Paris in Kansas.”

She wagged a finger at him. “And it’s just as good, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Steve agreed. He turned his attention back to the basket of apples. “It was… Quite the story.”

Mrs. Parker smiled down at the apple in her hand. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard it. Several times.” She paused. “Before I believed it.” She set another peeled apple onto the pile. “Well?”

“Well?” Steve repeated, polishing an apple on his sleeve.

“Aren’t you going to ask where he found me?” Mrs. Parker asked. Steve’s head snapped up, and he found her smiling at him, the knife held easily in one hand.

Steve considered it. “Seems rude,” he admitted, and she laughed.

“Not if I’m offering.” She held out a hand, and he gave her an arrow. “Well?”

Steve went back to the apple basket. “Where did he find you?”

The tip of the knife slid under the skin of the apple. “Beside my husband’s grave.”

Steve froze, caught in the act of picking up an apple. He looked up, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“My husband Ben worked for StarkIndustries,” she said. “A night watchman. It was a tough job, but the pay was good, and it meant he could be around in the afternoons, when Peter was coming home from school.”

She paused, her chin coming up. “He and Peter were quite close,” she said, and there was an aching note to her voice now. “Even before his parents passed away,. Peter was always over, always in and out of my kitchen, helping Ben with repairs, running up and down the stairs and rattling the windows.” She smiled. “Losing his parents was a horrible blow, never doubt it, but we loved him. We always loved him.”

Her thumb rubbed against the side of the knife handle. “And we agreed. The night watch, it was dangerous. We both knew that. But Ben was a careful man, a reliable man, and he wanted to be able to provide for us, so Peter could attend school..” Her thumb stilled, and her fingers tightened on the knife, her knuckles going white. “So many boys in the neighborhood were in the factories by the age of eleven or twelve, and we were determined, that would not happen to Peter. It would not.”

She fell silent for a moment. She reached for the basket, picking an apple seemingly at random. “They came, in the morning, the shift supervisor and the overseer, to tell me that he was dead.” A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Shot.”

Mrs. Parker took a deep breath. “It was a clean shot, at least. He didn’t suffer. Might not even know what had happened. A gang of men had broken in, looking for-” She shook her head. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter what they were looking for. Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he…”

The peel, blood red and thin as a sheet of paper, slipped from her fingers, falling soundlessly into the bowl. “He never came home.”

Steve realized he was turning an apple in his hands. He stilled his fingers with a force of will. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “So am I.” She took a deep breath, and it hissed between her teeth. “I’ll be honest. I don’t remember all that much that happened afterwards. I was determined, I would not break down. Peter had had enough loss, enough grief, and if I was all that was left, then I would be the rock upon which he could anchor himself.

“But I had no idea what would become of either of us. I had savings, more than most would’ve, and I’ve never shirked a day of work in my life. But I found myself, alone but for a small boy, at the grave of my husband, and-” She met Steve’s eyes squarely. “I had no concept of how I would survive, let alone how I would protect him.”

Across the great hall, Peter was chasing DJ with a mop, his face flushed, his hair bouncing against his forehead with every lunging step. His laughter was bright and loud as he swiped at DJ’s feet with the threads of the mop. DJ scrambled ahead of him, hopping from foot to foot, making a cheerful moving target.

Mrs. Parker dropped the apple into the bowl. “And that is where I met Mr. Stark. While standing by my husband’s grave.”

Steve head snapped up, surprised, and she smiled at him. “Everyone had gone home. Even the priest. It was just Peter and I, standing there. With, perhaps, no where else to go. We had a flat still, of course, paid for through the end of the month, but I knew I couldn’t long afford that, not on my own. So in a way, we’d already lost it.

“I wasn’t eager to go back there, to pack up what little we had, to put Peter’s books and clothes and toys in crates yet again. So we were standing there.” She paused. “He hadn’t come to the funeral, of course. No one expected him to. A few men from the factory conveyed their sympathies, and that was more than most got, when their husband or father died on the job.

“So when he strode up to me in the churchyard, I wasn’t fully sure I hadn’t lost my mind.” She smiled. “Because he stalked up, his jaw set, Miss Potts just a step behind him, and said, ‘I need a housekeeper.’”

Steve choked on a laugh, and clamped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he managed, through his fingers. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s quite funny.” She paused. “Now. Now, it’s quite funny. At the time, it was… Just confounding. And I would’ve said something unforgivable to him, except Miss Potts was there, just behind him, looking quite horrified by the whole situation. She was the one who managed to say the right things, she’s quite good at that.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “Yes, she is.”

“And she took Peter’s hand, and told him stories about his uncle, and lead him just a few steps away, probably so I could give Mr. Stark a piece of my mind without him hearing. But before I could get a word out, he plowed straight into his offer.

“His housekeeper was retiring, he said. Mrs. Arbogast had been housekeeper here since he was a child, and she was done with the job. And he was offering it to me.” Mrs. Parker paused. “He was talking to me, but he was watching Peter, the whole time. I think-”

She stopped. “In any case, he made the offer, turned on his heel and was gone. Miss Potts gave me a card, and said she’d call on me the following day, after I’d had time to think about it.” She shook her head. “What was there to think about? I had no desire to enter service, but I also had precious little choice.”

Mrs. Parker finished peeling the apple in her hand and placed it in the bowl, then lifted the bowl of peelings out of her lap, shaking out her apron. “If it were just me, of course, I wouldn’t have even hesitated. But I’d been the child of servants, Officer Rogers. I had grown up, in and around a grand house back in England. It wasn’t the life I wanted for Peter.”

She set the bowl of peelings aside. “Servants are always expected to be invisible. Their work must be efficient, quick, silent and, and most importantly, invisible. You must exist as a non-entity. You must be there when needed, and disappear when you are not. You are privy to everything that happens, and expected never to judge, never to speak, never to…” Her words trailed away. “In any case, I sat there, that night, looking at our savings, looking at what I could scrape together, if I sold everything we had. What did we need, to live? How much would I have to have, and how quickly could I get it?

“After all, they were offering me a position that included room and board. I could save almost every cent they paid me. We were used to lean meals and cold rooms, and I couldn’t imagine what we’d have at Stark Manor would be any worse than what we’d manage on our own.” She nodded. “I calculated. How long we’d have to stay, before I thought we could survive on our own.

“And in the morning, I sat Peter down, and I told him. This is what we’d be doing. And I was sorry. I would make it as short as I possibly could, I would get him out as quickly as I could. But for as long as we were there, where ever they put us, whatever they expected of us, he had one rule.”

She looked at Steve. “He had to be quiet. No matter what. No matter how bored he was. No matter how frustrated, or angry. I would teach him. How to walk silently. How to sit perfectly still. How to not move, when there were people in the house, when they might hear him. How to be unseen, unheard, how to…”

Her fingers tightened on her apron. “How to stop being a child. Stop being a person.”

She looked across the main hall, to where the boys were sloshing water in all directions, laughing so loud that the sound echoed in the cavernous space. “He was a good boy, Officer Rogers. And he’d lost so much, in such a short amount of time. When Miss Potts came to talk to me, he didn’t make a sound. He didn’t move. He just sat there. Staring out the window.

“Miss Potts brought me the details of what they were offering, and a card with Mrs. Arbogast’s address. She encouraged me to speak to her, before I took the job, but I didn’t see the point. After all.” She gave Steve a lopsided smile. “What choice did I have?”

He nodded. “You did it.”

“I did it,” she agreed. “Packed what I could, sold what I couldn’t, and showed up here, expecting-” She stopped. 

Steve waited. “A French Chef?” he asked at last, and she laughed.

“No. No, Clint was… A surprise,” she admitted. “But really, it was all a surprise.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “If someone had explained this place to you, before you came here, would you have believed them?”

Steve looked down at the apple in his hands. “No.” He rolled it over between his fingers. “I’m here, and I’m still not sure I believe it.” He held the apple out to her. “You stayed.”

“We stayed,” she agreed. “Because one morning, after we’d been here for about, maybe a month? I went down in the kitchen, in the early hours, to start the bread rising. It was maybe-” She shook her head. “Maybe four am. I wasn’t expecting company. But Mr. Stark was there, with a cup of coffee and a stack of papers.” Slowly, carefully, she began to remove the skin from the apple in her hands, the peel sliding between his fingertips.

“I expected him to leave. Or ask me to leave. Instead, he just sat there, watching me mix bread dough. And when I was done, when I was about to leave, he suddenly said, and I remember this, even now, I remember…” Her knife went still. “‘Is he all right?’”

She smiled. “It took me a moment to realize that he meant Peter. I didn’t even have a chance to reply. He looked up at me, and said, ‘It’s not natural for a kid to be that quiet.’”

She held up the long, uninterrupted piece of peel, and deposited it into the bowl with the others. “I don’t think he knew how to ask, how to say what he wanted to say.” She sliced a chunk of apple free from the core and held it out to Steve, speared on the tip of her knife. “But he tried.”

Steve took it, slipping it into his mouth. It was sweet and cool, the flesh crisp against his tongue. “He does that a lot, doesn’t he?” he asked, his voice quiet.

She nodded. “There are secrets here,” she said. “Some of which I still may not be aware of. Perhaps that should bother me.”

“But it doesn’t.” Steve took another bite of the apple slice.

“It doesn’t,” she agreed. “Because he taught my nephew how to slide down the stairs on an antique tray, and make as much noise as possible the entire way.” She straightened up. “Boys!” she called, cutting the apple apart. “The floor will wait. Come have a snack.”

DJ came tearing across the great hall, water shedding from his pants with every step. Laughing, Steve held out his hands, grabbing him before he could crash into Mrs. Parker. “Did you go into the bucket?” he asked, standing up and taking DJ with him.

“We might’ve spilled a little,” Peter admitted. He was almost as wet as DJ, dragging the mop behind him. “Sorry, Aunt May.”

“You’ll clean it up,” she said. She offered him a chunk of apple. “Won’t you?”

He took it. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then there’s nothing to be sorry about..” She sliced another piece of apple free from the core. “DJ, would you like some apple?”

DJ nodded. “Yes,” he said, his head falling onto Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve hugged him close. “Yes?” he prompted.

“Please,” DJ added.

“Thank you, I know it’s hard for you. I appreciate that you try,” Mrs. Parker said, holding out a slice of apple to him. She gave another slice to Steve. “I bet if you ask very nicely, Officer Rogers’ll help you clean this up.”

DJ looked at Steve. “No,” Steve told him, trying to hide his smile.

“Please?” DJ repeated.

Steve set him down. “Well, since you asked so nicely. I’ll see what I can do.”


End file.
